A Terrorist for Christmas
by Channel D
Summary: On the eve of the holidays, terrorists attack the Washington Navy Yard. NCIS is caught up in the battle, and its people will be tested in many ways. Action, suspense and drama. Violence, not too graphic but may be upsetting to some. Multi-chapter epic.
1. December 24, daytime

**A Terrorist for Christmas  
**by channelD

_Rating:_ T  
_Genre:_ Action/Drama  
_Setting:_ Washington DC, December  
_Featuring:_ Tim and the Team  
_Theme:_ As the holidays near, The Washington Navy Yard comes under a terrorist attack, and NCIS is in the thick of it.  
**Warning:** **Violence**; not too graphic, but might upset some

- - - - -

Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS

- - - - -

_**Introduction: December 17**_

"Chatter on the GC-12 network, Jenny. Thought you'd want to know." The head of MTAC handed NCIS Director Jennifer Shepard a sheaf of printouts, colored with his usual painstaking highlighting, and neatly bundled with a bulldog clip.

"Thanks, Earl," she murmured, unclipping the papers and starting to scan them. He was right to print them out rather than email them. Having hard copies allowed her to more easily spread the papers out to compare them. "Ah, I see. A possible target here in Washington? Is that really new?" Not that she doubted him. He was not an alarmist; there must be something in here.

Earl Conklin nodded, but his mild tone didn't warm the grimness in his eyes. "Yes, it's new. These were accumulated over the weekend. They're specifically talking about _targeting the Navy."_

- - - - -

_**Chapter 1: Daytime, December 24**_

A week passed, and tensions hadn't eased a bit in the Navy Yard. All the way along the East Coast from Norfolk, Virginia to Newport, Rhode Island the internal terror level remained on Red Alert, since ordered by the SECNAV on the day MTAC had reported to Jenny. Jenny was almost never off the phone. Only to a Congressional sub-committee would she report in person; travel took up too much valuable time.

Security was tighter than most people had seen in their careers. From NCIS' Contingency Response Field Office in Glynco, Georgia came 34 agents, one third of the CRFO's force, to help out. NCIS HQ was crowded, though the non-SA staff was freely encouraged to take leave. NCIS could do without them for a little while; there was no reason to keep people not trained in defense in the danger zone.

Not so the special agents. Leave had been cancelled for them, and they were always armed; always in bullet-proof vests, inside the building as well as out. Agents had to check with their supervisors and sign out even if leaving just to have a cigarette. Deliveries in and out of the Navy Yard were curtailed until it was evident that the alert would drag on for awhile, since the base needed its mail and food. Still, one restriction impacts a lot of others. Everyone, from Jenny and the base Commander on down, who drove onto the base faced a thorough check of their vehicle, causing tremendous delays. Navy Yard personnel who hadn't taken public transportation in years found themselves riding the Metro and doing the cold, .5 mile walk to the Navy Yard to avoid the vehicular traffic jam at the gates. But even the pedestrians faced thorough searches. It was difficult to endure this, day after day, but the Yard workers did so, with gallows humor.

That much said, many agents opted to bring in a couple days worth of clothes and sleep on cots set up in the gym, rather than deal with the commute. The agency offered to do laundry/dry cleaners runs for them. It was worth it to keep people onsite, even if this did mean more phone time given over to personal calls to families. One woman wept to miss her 5-year-old's birthday party. There was no longer such a thing as a weekend.

On the morning of Monday, the 24th, agent Tim McGee was on the phone with his sister. "No, Sarah, I can't get away, and I'm sorry I can't drive you to the airport, either. You know how to get to Dulles…No, I _can't._ This is my _job. _Mom and Dad will understand when I call them…No. No. I'll be fine here. Don't you even think _for a moment_ of staying home. Sarah, I don't know what's going to happen here, but I'd feel a lot more comfortable knowing you were away from Washington…Yes; I'll call you all tomorrow. Merry Christmas." He hung up the phone, feeling drained, and looked up to see Gibbs standing over his desk. "Uh, sorry, boss; I was just…"

But Gibbs only said, "Got the material from Newport up, yet, McGee?"

"Uh, yes; it's here." He reached for a printout, only to have it fumble from his fingers as his ad-hoc partner approached.

"Sorry I'm late, Gibbs, Tim," Faith Underhill said, her voice low and musical, as always. Her chestnut hair gleamed, and her light blue eyes were a trifle sultry, a trifle cheeky behind the black-rimmed designer glasses that gave her a powerful, yet almost mocking, Tina Fey-type appeal. In Tim's eyes she was gorgeous.

"Don't let it happen again," Gibbs growled. He turned back to his own desk, and then checked his watch. Time for another meeting at MTAC. How many meetings a day were they up to now?

A small table had been set up for Faith, with a laptop, beside Tim's desk. She was one of the brightest minds in Intel, and though a relatively new hire, had already made a name for herself in data analysis. She also spoke several languages. The only thing that diminished her, in Tim's eyes (and this was very slight) was that she had gone to Cal Tech instead of MIT. But she had a lively, wry sense of humor, and a mild antipathy toward authority. When this was all over, Tim was considering asking her out…though she was about three years older than him. Would that put her off? He didn't know.

For four days now, they had been working side by side. The special agents (permanent to Washington, and the ones from CRFO) had been given assignments for the duration; Tony and Ziva were field/outside defense operatives; Tim was assigned inside to do Intel work from the SA's point of view. He missed the opportunity to go out, but accepted the fact that this was where he could be of most help.

"Tim?" Faith's query got his attention. "Shall we run through the overnight chatter?"

"Okay. My Arabic's getting better, but it's still not as good as yours."

She laughed, and they plugged in headphones to listen to the CIA/NSA supplied files.

- - - - -

The day had started out with soft gray clouds occasionally letting scraps of blue sky shine through. By early afternoon, though, the wind turned east; cold and damp. Blue sky vanished and the clouds lowered; sickly gray and indistinct in light fog. Darkness seeped in around 3; a lingering, cruel twilight that went to fully dark before 5.

Inside the NCIS building, about 5, someone set a CD player going with jazzy Christmas carols. People laughed and applauded; when a swing version of _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ came on, some got up and started dancing. Cartons of eggnog emerged, and so did jugs of apple cider. (No one had the nerve to suggest spiking either, given the grave times.) There were Christmas cookies and candies to share, and Jenny sent a large tray of cheese and crackers down to the squad room, with a hint of more food to come. (_Don't fill up before dinner!_ she'd said.) Ducky contributed boxes of British Christmas crackers, and the squad room soon filled with sharp _pops!_ and laughter.

The first report came from the Isaac Hull gate.

"Gorham Lasers. Three of them," the gate guard rasped. "Colliers is down. Erskine is doing return fire from cover, but we only have the rifles."

Jenny held back a gasp that tried to get out. _Gorham Lasers! _The Model 7 Dolan shoulder-mounted linear rifles were built to destroy _vehicles!_ "Can you get Colliers to cover?"

"It's…too late for that, ma'am. He's gone."

"You can't be sure of that, Gomez! He might still be alive!"

She heard his gulp. "No, ma'am, he's not. It blew him in two, ma'am."

"Oh…I'm sorry, Gomez. Stay safe. Help is on the way."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

Jenny's next move, as she hung up, was to push the button that she had only pushed during the annual alarm testing.

- - - - -

Everyone stopped their merrymaking and looked up when the alarm went off, and fear took over. _How bad? Where? Who? _Eyes turned toward the ever-on ZNN network, but it was showing a cute story of Christmas somewhere in the Heartland. Nothing had reached it yet.

Jenny's voiced cut in over the PA system, and the alarm became just a murmur. "May I have your attention, please? This is Director Shepard. An attack is underway at the Isaac Hull gate. It involves three Gorham Lasers. Teams A, B, and C—arm up and get out there. _Be careful!_ Go now. Will the leaders of teams D, E and F meet in my office now. That is all."

Tony and Ziva were on team A, with two CRFOs and Gibbs as team leader. Gibbs was already moving too fast to stop, but Tim was able to catch up with Tony and Ziva. "Guys, uh…be careful, okay? I wouldn't want to come to work if you weren't here to rib me."

Tony grinned, though it looked a little forced. "See, Ziva? I told you our Probie secretly liked it." He gave Tim a light noogie, while Ziva rolled her eyes.

"We will be fine, McGee,' she said. "I am glad that we are in the first wave. We will run them off!"

Tim watched them quickly put on their body armor and run out with their team; watched sadly. He remembered his parents' admonition to tell people you cared about that you loved them, every day. His coworkers weren't quite the kind of people he could come out and say that to, but he hoped they knew it, anyway.

Faith gave Tim an unusually soft look when he sat back down, looking pale. "Your friends?"

"Yeah. This attack sounds really bad. Of course, it won't be just NCIS fighting—we have the Navy and the Marines, here, and that includes members of the MARSOC Marines Special Forces."

"How many people is that?"

He thought. "On duty right now? Maybe 100. I'm guessing." His gaze swept the room, where the remaining agents milled in worry, awaiting instructions. It was evident that just about all of them wanted to go help defend the gate, though they knew that wasn't practical.

A bellow came from the balcony. Supervisory Special Agent Taylor, out of CRFO, called out, "Team F! Gear up! We're going to the O Street Gate!" On hearing the cries of alarm, he added, "No, there's no attack there. This is a precaution."

And no doubt MARSOC would be in place at the Marines gate at 8th Street. All that the people inside the NCIS building could do was wait for news. And hope for not too many casualties.

ZNN broke to a few minutes of coverage of the Pope's midnight service at Saint Paul's. As the pontiff called for peace on earth, Tim closed his eyes and prayed…and was pretty sure he could hear the gunfire at the gate…


	2. December 24, evening

_**Chapter 2: December 24, evening**_

The concussion of the Gorham Lasers, and the things they tore apart, could be heard for blocks. As alarms wailed, smoke obscured some of the lights at the Isaac Hull gate and the street lights beyond. When the NCIS teams, with their rifles and tactical weapons, arrived at the battleground on foot and in jeeps, it was clear that things were already beyond bad.

The steel-reinforced concrete bollards (bland in shapes of large, rust-colored balls) were still in place outside the gate. Inside, the sunken protective bollards had been triggered to rise from underground, preventing vehicle access completely. A car in the short-term parking area was ablaze, as was the guard shack. The brick side wall (mostly decorative) before the gate's real entrance had half-fallen. GL fire continued. A body lay in the incoming roadway—Colliers, likely. The other two guards weren't visible, but must be the ones returning fire by rifle.

"Take cover!" Gibbs ordered as red lasers swung toward the advancing troops. A laser point settled on Baker, one of the CRFO agents on team C, and suddenly with a _B__oom!_ he was lifted up and came down, dead.

"At 11 o'clock, Gibbs. Forty feet," murmured CRFO agent Moynihan near his ear. She wore night goggles and was acting as his spotter sniper.

"Gotcha," Gibbs replied, and with two shots, the armored attacker lurched and then went down. But there was no time to celebrate; what had been reported as three attackers was somehow now seven.

Sirens cut through the gunfire. Gibbs rolled over to the side and motioned to CRFO agent Kankavich to take his place as sniper. "Jenny!" he said into his phone as softly as he could get away with, to avoid targeting himself. "Got local forces arriving; police, fire department. Get them out of here—they're not equipped for this!" He hung up without waiting for an answer.

- - - - -

"No, Mayor," Jenny was saying on one line, while the SECNAV, her boss, was on hold on another, and God only knew how many calls Cynthia had in the queue. "We appreciate the thought of the police and fire departments, but this is really out of the District's scope. It does appear to be a terrorist act, involving military-grade weapons. Your people just don't have the combination of armor and weaponry that we do. And yes, we have fire-fighting equipment on the base. What I _would_ like your forces to do is establish a perimeter at least point five miles in radius, all around the Yard. Let no one in or out. You will? Thank you. Goodbye."_ Sigh. Back to the SECNAV._ "Sorry about that, Kel. I need a clone of myself…"

"Yes, Congressman," Cynthia said. "I do have you in line to talk to Director Shepard. You're number three now. Please hold." _And I never thought I'd need so many buttons on this phone._

"I know it must be worse than chaotic there, Jen," said the SECNAV. "But I've got half a dozen different interests, all the way up to the President, wanting to know what's going on. What can I do to help?"

"Stay next to the phone, Kel. You're on your cell? Until we know what's going on, I don't know what to ask for. The Marines are helping out; I don't know if that's enough yet. Hang on a minute." She called Cynthia on the intercom. "Cynthia, any casualties at the gate, besides poor Colliers?"

"As of, um, about two minutes ago, it was two dead, three wounded."

"Good God." Jenny squeezed her eyes shut, not ready to ask for names yet. She reported this to the SECNAV.

He took a deep breath. "Jenny, this is no time for bravado. The Army National Guard will come, if we ask them."

She thought. "Not yet. I want to wait for a full assessment, not just dribs and drabs of a report."

"All right. But don't hold off too long. I've got a teleconference with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but I'll call back in about half an hour."

- - - - -

"We don't have the right kind of firepower!" Tony gasped to Ziva, at his side. "Now I know how David felt, going up against Goliath! Say, was he an ancestor of yours, that David?"

She rolled her eyes briefly and then got off another shot. "Gibbs!" she beckoned as he crawled back to the Team A position. "I think I see Gomez—in the shrubs at two o'clock."

"Good work." Gibbs again crawled away, this time towards the decorative border of shrubs. "Gomez!" he hissed.

"Agent Gibbs! Glad to see you folks, sir! This is hell come to earth, sir!"

"It's not pretty. How're you doing?"

"About out of ammo, sir." Gratefully he accepted the shells Gibbs offered, then answered Gibbs' unspoken question. "They came out of nowhere, sir. We didn't even see them approach until they were in our faces! Poor Colliers was about to go off shift, and Erskine had just come up to replace him. And there these guys were, and they opened fire without a word. I had my phone out, so I called the Director, and Colliers and Erskine started returning fire."

"There were three, and now there are seven? How did that happen? Where did the others come from?"

"Somewhere on M Street, sir. I don't know, sir; I'm sorry!"

Gibbs knew better than to berate the young seaman, who had been doing his best. "Where's Erskine?"

"I—I don't know, sir. I think he may have been hit. Or else is out of ammo."

"We'll find him," Gibbs promised. "Stay safe."

Gibbs heard a cry somewhere off to the side as someone was hit. His mind flashed back to Desert Storm, and a battle there. Only a few seconds did the troubling memory last, and then he returned focus to here and now. _Here. War on own soil._

- - - - -

The ZNN news anchor was handed a note, and he interrupted himself to read it. Then, looking at the camera, he said, "We've just been informed that what appears to be a terrorist attack is underway in Washington, D.C, at this moment. The President is known to be spending his Christmas vacation in San Diego, and he has been briefed on the situation. We don't know where in Washington this is happening, or if there are any casualties, but we will keep you informed as news comes in and is confirmed. This may be a very dangerous situation, so if you are in the D.C. area, _do not_, repeat, _do not_ send us your pictures or videos. Stay out of the way and let the professionals handle it. Now back to Mel Rolling with a story on the legend of animals speaking on Christmas Day…"

"Well, they've learned to cover themselves," Tim remarked, turning his face away from the TV and back to his computer.

"What's that?" asked Faith.

"Cover themselves. You remember; after that teenager went out to get pictures of a tornado last spring to send to ZNN, and wound up almost getting killed? I guess ZNN's attorneys told them to say this."

"Oh, yes; I remember now. They're so far away; ZNN. They musn't understand what we're going through, here."

"I'm not sure I'd believe it if I weren't experiencing it. Hey, Zelig!" he called out as the head of Intel walked past. "Any news?"

"Very little, and we're still trying to sift through it," said Zelig, who then snapped his fingers. "Hey, Tim, can you tap into the security cameras at the guard post?"

"What? No one's done that yet??"

"We didn't think of it. We're stretched thinly, and we don't go to war every Christmas. Come with me to MTAC. Faith, keep working on the chatter."

- - - - -

Tim soon had the cameras feeding into MTAC; all three of them, which he rotated to give different vantage points. With a little more effort, audio came online, too. Tim struggled as he worked to spot Gibbs, Tony and Ziva, but in their protective armor, all the NCIS SAs looked pretty much the same (except that the CRFOs armor was desert sand camouflage pattern, and the HQ armor was woodland camo).

Jenny came in, wearing a Bluetooth headset with a boom. "Thank you, Tim. Gad. Who are these people? Do we know anything from the chatter, Charles?"

"Not as of yet," Zelig replied. "The NSA is decoding as fast as they can, but they have no leads. The CIA says there probably won't be the usual attention-seekers claiming responsibility for another half-hour to an hour yet. It partly depends on how long it takes us to put them down."

Jenny nodded. "Those weapons—do we have a positive ID on them being Gorham Lasers?"

Tim had already settled in at a computer, and quickly brought up classified schematics. "Looks like 'em…" He did a freeze-frame and an enlargement of one of the attackers, and then enlarged the weapon again and again. "Yes. See, there's the Gorham symbol there on the stock."

"Charles, what do we have that can combat GLs?"

"NCIS? Not a lot. The Marines have shoulder-mounted weapons, but here on the base? Not many of those, either. Do you want my opinion, Jen?"

She nodded, not taking her eyes off the plasma screens.

"Get the Army National Guard in here. They have the weapons."

"They do," she said, looking pained. "But I can't snap my fingers and make them appear here. It'd be a couple of hours at least before they could gear up, mobilize, and get here. We're on our own for awhile."

"Will you call them?" Zelig persisted.

"I—that's the SECNAV's call," said Jenny. It was a fudge, and she knew it. Kel would approve it; he seemed to want it. But she wasn't sure if that was the right thing. She turned away as she got another call.

- - - - -

"I understand, Mayor, and I support you in that," she said, numbly. _Evacuating __all the civilians__ inside the half-mile security perimeter! On Christmas Eve!_ It was probably right as a safety issue; if the attackers had anything like a dirty bomb, you didn't want civilians around. But the poor mayor was risking his career if it turned out to be much ado over nothing. _Brave man._

It was nearly 8 p.m. now, and still the fighting went on, with little progress. ZNN now had a camera crew hiding somewhere—atop some building down by the Navy Yard Metro station, half a mile away, using a telescopic lens, perhaps—picking out the flashes of rifle fire. You really couldn't tell anything by those pictures, but still they were trying to report.

- - - - -

In the squad room, the remaining SAs watched the ZNN feed, for MTAC was too busy to brief them. In the background, the CD player was still going, and an old pop favorite came on.

_What a laugh it would have been  
__If Daddy had only seen  
__Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night…_

_"Turn that damn thing off!"_ someone yelled.

"This is hardly the time for fluffy songs," another person agreed.

"No, it's no more inappropriate than it was last year," an older agent argued.

"But Hal, people are dying outside!"

"And turning off the music is going to save them? No, we can't give in. We can't change what we do because of fear. Let the fluffy songs continue, if it makes people feel better. I have a 3-year-old grandson who loves this song."

With some grumbling, but more assent, the CD player stayed on.

- - - - -

Round after round of fire was exchanged at the gate. The guard shack was now almost completely gone, though the bollards, thankfully, held fast, only being chipped. _Do they have vehicles waiting to sweep in here if the bollards fail?_ Gibbs wondered. He called Jenny. "How are the other gates doing?"

"No sign of attackers at either, but we don't dare take any protection off them."

"Of course not." He pocketed his phone and did a quick count. Two dead among their people, and no opportunity to get the bodies out yet. Four wounded; only one seriously, and she had been moved back to NCIS. Ducky and Palmer might have a long night, treating the wounded.

A ragged cheer went up when an attacker fell. _What kind of super-armor do these guys have?!_ Gibbs thought, shaking his head. _They're practically indestructible._ But the attackers now numbered six. That was something.


	3. December 24, late evening

_**Chapter **__**3: December 24, late evening**_

She had no one to do the task—Gibbs would have been her first choice, but he was still in the battle zone. Jenny had to do it herself; taking away precious moments from phone calls and video conferences and meetings with key people on site. "Hello, Abby," she said, coming into the lab. "How are you holding up?"

Abby turned from her seat at a screen where she'd been playing solitaire; being on her own time. "Oh, hi, Director. I hope you've brought something for me to do?"

Jenny pulled up a stool, and by force of nervous habit, put down a hand to smooth her skirt, only to realize she wore camo slacks. "Not yet. Abby, I just wanted to say…I'm sorry. I should have worked harder at getting you out of here before things got bad."

The scientist developed an interest in her dark gray fingernails. "No biggie, Director. I want to help anyway I can."

"I know you do. But there's no shame in admitting you're scared, Abby. We all are."

"You are?" Abby's eyes were wide. "But at least you guys are trained for this stuff!"

"In a way. We're not soldiers. FLETC gives some training in combat, but not on this scale. And even so, I would worry about the soldier who is so jaded that he doesn't have _some_ fear."

Jumping from her seat, Abby enveloped the shorter woman in a bear hug, and the tears came then. "Yes, I'm scared; I'm scared. I should have taken the leave when you offered it 3 days ago…"

"But we've appreciated the work you've done. I wish I could send you home now, Abby; but that's no longer possible. You're going to have to ride it out here with us. Do you have your bullet-proof vest on?"

"Yes, though it's stretching this sweater out of shape!"

"Sorry, but you have to wear it. We all do." Jenny glanced to her side. "Ah. There's something I'd like you to do. Take some dark fabric, or trash bags, and cover the windows. I'd rather not have anyone able to see in, at ground level."

"Why…" The enormity then hit her, and she gasped. "You think the, uh, the attackers could get through the gate? Could get through, and get this close to us?"

Jenny nodded, slowly. "We have to prepare for the possibility." Her phone rang then, and she waved goodbye and left.

- - - - -

"Ducky, we have a new patient; a man with a bullet wound to his hand."

"If you can handle it for now, dear Noreen, please do so. I will attend to him when I am able," Ducky grunted, not looking up from the autopsy table where he labored,

"Yes, doctor." Noreen Freestate had been a Navy nurse before retiring and coming to NCIS to work in Intel two years before; in this crisis she was recalling her old skills, wearing one of Abby's lab coats in place of scrubs.

"Doctor Mallard, the patient is bleeding again." Jimmy Palmer said, his voice tinged with hopelessness.

Ducky sighed. They were doing all they could, but that wasn't enough. The special agent had suffered critical injures in battle; right now, she was only a few steps this side of being alive. Ducky spoke into his hated-but-necessary Bluetooth. "Jennifer; I must again _insist_ on getting an ambulance for Agent Schofield. We are not equipped to be a hospital here. I don't know how long we can keep her going. If not an ambulance, surely then a boat or something…?"

"I was just about to call you, Ducky," said Jenny. "Have her ready to go in ten minutes."

"Hallelujah! I shall dance around the table twenty times in that time!" In fact, Ducky grabbed Palmer's hands and pulled his startled young associate into a round with him.

- - - - -

Jenny, beginning to feel like a watchman doing rounds, wove back into MTAC. People were working on different projects, alone or in groups. "Any new thoughts, Tim?" she asked; Zelig, of course, had superior status, but he was on the phone.

Tim didn't take his eyes from the screens. "I keep trying to count attackers, but it's hard. I'd swear there are more than six there. Wait a minute…" After some furiously fast typing on Tim's part, two of the three screens displayed stills with identical timestamps. "There! I count nine, for sure."

"Where are new ones coming from?" Jenny murmured, as Tim sent the screens back to live coverage. "Are there vehicles parked on the street?"

"Our rooftop cams say no," MTAC head Earl Conklin put in, as he came over to them. "M Street is clear for at least two blocks in either direction."

"If they're not coming in vehicles, then how…?"

"Tim, move camera 2 to up a bit to pan across M Street," Zelig directed. "What do we have for privately-owned buildings for, say, three blocks, either side of the gate? The Lincoln School, one block west…"

"And the adjacent Lincoln School Day Care Center, the animal hospital, the Elks Lodge, the Baptist church…and that's just off the top of my head," said Conklin. "Good Lord. All sorts of places that could easily have been taken over over the weekend, and no one would have noticed. No guards, like the government buildings have. Jen—"

"I'm calling the SECNAV right now," she said, pale, and spoke into her boom. "Kel. It's time. We need the Army National Guard. We think attackers are hiding in private property along M Street."

- - - - -

Tony was tired, and his shoulder ached from holding the rifle. Not that anything could be done about that. At least there had been no more serious casualties in the last half hour. _How long have we been out here? Is it really __only__ three__-some__ hours?_ He wondered how poor Rhonda Schofield was doing. Gibbs had been in touch with Jenny or someone a few times and provided tidbits: The air space over SE Washington was now restricted. The police and fire departments were evacuating residents of the immediate area. Traffic along the Anacostia river had also been halted.

But Tony, and everyone, looked up as a _whup-whup-whup_ sound suddenly came loud and low. A black helicopter, barely visible in the night, made a dragonfly's delicate sweep a little to the right of them, headed, no doubt, for a landing in the parking lot by the river. "It's one of ours," Gibbs called. "Working as med-evac, to get Agent Schofield out of here." Cheers went up at that.

They could see the copter hovering, then lowering…and then came a loud _whuff!_ like a roman candle launching, and the copter became a huge fireball and cracked into thousands of pieces, and fell in flames, rocking the earth for blocks around.

"They shot it down!" Ziva said, eyes wide.

"Jen! The copter was shot down!" Gibbs reported.

Everyone inside NCIS had felt it and heard it, if not seen it. They rushed to the windows.

While trying to blink away tears, Jenny called down to Autopsy/Medical Center. "Ducky, that was to be the med flight to get Rhonda Schofield out of here. It was shot down. We'll think of something else…"

"How tragic for the pilots! But there is no need, Jennifer…" Ducky glanced at the sad-eyed Palmer, and wiped away a tear of his own. "Agent Schofield has just flatlined."


	4. December 24, midnight

_**Chapter **__**4: December 24, midnight**_

The Navy Yard fire department (consisting of just two fire engines and a command jeep), with help from some Navy men and women, battled the helicopter's flaming wreckage for over an hour before bringing it to a smoking heap. At this hour, it was still too hot to deal with; retrieval of the bodies of the two pilots would have to wait. The falling debris had also set fire to a few trees and two parked cars; these, too, were dealt with, and the cars towed. Cutting down the half-burnt trees would be a project for another day. Still, the fire personnel lingered at the scene, and glanced in the general direction of the Isaac Hull gate (not visible; there were buildings in the way), wishing they could help up there. It was just as well that the copter had come down where it did, however. Having the fire trucks taken out by the Gorham Laser anti-vehicle weapons would have been disasterous.

At the Isaac Hull gate, the special agents had grown weary after so long a fight and so little to show for it. After SA Gantry had left action with a leg wound, the command of the mission fell to Gibbs. He shuffled people's positions and was ever watchful, but regretted that this didn't allow him to perform as sniper. It was almost 11:30 when the phone call he'd been waiting for came through: replacements were on the way. A soft cheer went up when fresh, well-armed Marines marched up. The SAs fell back, willingly.

Jenny herself met them at the NCIS front door; her special agents, never meant to be military combatants as such, but willing to do what they could. They looked bone-tired, sooty, and some bore makeshift bandages. They were beautiful in her eyes. She thanked each of them, and urged them to wash up and then get some rest.

"I could sleep a week," said Tony, yawning, as they headed for the stairs. "I'll settle for five hours."

Ziva was tempted to make a joke about a typical work day for Tony, but bit it back. No one wanted to hear jokes just yet. She entered the squad room, the first to do so, and only thought of washing her face and hands in the ladies' room.

"They're back!" someone cried. As the remaining SAs from the battle came in, the others in the squad room rose and greeted them with cheers and applause. Chilled bottles of water and soda were handed out. "It's midnight!" another person, a returning combatant, said. _"Merry Christmas!"_ Simultaneously, two people broke into song, the same song; stopped and laughed, then started again in an agreed-upon key, and others joined in.

_Oh come, all ye faithful;  
__Joyful and triumphant…_

But one verse was enough. The night was too painful. The combatants quietly pulled off their body armor and sought out the cots.

- - - - -

"I don't know why they picked the Hull gate to attack," MTAC head Earl Conklin remarked, viewing the action on the MTAC plasma screens. "I would have gone for the O Street gate. Wider gate, for one thing."

"But it's normally better fortified," Intel head Charles Zelig pointed out. "Hull is not meant to be a trouble zone, being only for Yard workers, and the access on M Street is better. That's a dead-end on O Street. And of course messing with the Marines at their gate…the least likely option, for anyone with a brain."

"I'd like to be sure of that," said Tim, daring to join in the conversation of the higher-ups. "Could we get permission from the Marines to tap into their M Street cams?"

"I'll give them a call," said Conklin. Within minutes they had their okay, and Tim brought up the view on two monitors that Zelig hastily set up. M Street and its intersection at 8th Street looked quiet there, too (since no traffic was getting in). There were, though, some trucks and cars parked here and there. "When the Guard comes, I'll suggest they tow all those. We don't need more targets, or more hiding places." Jenny had gone off for a few hours of sleep in her office, leaving Conklin in charge of NCIS, after one long look over her shoulder.

"You folks might as well get some sleep, too." he added. "I'll call you if I need you."

Tim was glad for the word; he could feel his performance was off. He headed for his desk in the squad room and found Faith bent over her table, asleep. He thought about waking her up, but was shy about touching her. To his relief, she woke up by herself. "Oh. Tim! What time is it?"

"Almost one. Nearly everyone's getting some sleep. You should, too. On a cot, I mean. Where's your cot? Not that I, uh…"

She gave him a you're-cute-when-you're-flustered look. "In the girls' dorm section of the gym. How about you?"

"The break room. I told them I needed to be close to my computers, and this is the best they could do, since they weren't allowing cots in the squad room, because it's a working area. Did you pick up anything in the chatter?"

"No, nothing of consequence. Did anything come up in MTAC?"

Tim hesitated momentarily before shaking his head. Of course he and Faith had been working together steadily for days now, but he still felt like he didn't really know her. He'd always felt the general rule was that what happens in MTAC stays in MTAC, and it was a rule he followed. Maybe Faith's home base of Intel was a little more lax about it, when they dealt with MTAC. Yes, it all seemed so inconsequential; camera angles and such, but Tim would be loath to share it even with Tony and Ziva without someone's permission. He said good night to Faith and headed for the break room.

- - - - -

Tim saw people in a ghostly blue camo moving among the SAs in the squad room, unnoticed by the agents. _Who are these guys? Am I the only one who sees them?_ These intruders were heavily armed, and cruel-looking. Two converged on a female agent from team B and drew knives. Tony noticed and shouted a warning, but—

That woke Tim up, and he sat up, shaking, trying to snatch at the dream before it got away. _Moles_. He looked at his watch. Almost 4 AM. It wasn't really enough sleep, but it would do for now. He was dying to get back to work, and to talk to Zelig or someone. A quick shower and shave, and large amounts of coffee sometime, and he would be set to go.

For this period of crisis, he'd been given enough clearance to get into MTAC on just the retinal scan. Zelig was still there, though looking weary. Conklin was gone, but Jenny was back. No one else was in the room. "Morning," he said, plopping down in the chair he'd left only a short time ago."

They both smiled at him. "Tim! We were just talking about you!" Zelig grinned. "Are you up and running? How'd you like to be in charge of Intel for a couple of hours so I can conk out?"

"Uh…no," said Tim, while knowing he was trapped.

"Good!" Zelig said, as if Tim had said 'yes'. "Seriously, if you need me, call me. Just continue to reason all this out. That's all." He waved and left.

"You look like I feel," Jenny said to Tim, with another smile. "Be sure to take some down time a little later, as I will. No one can function well on this little sleep."

Tim nodded. "Director, if I can ask you something…?"

"Of course."

"My mind was running through some possibilities while I was trying to sleep. And it kept coming back to those vehicles on the street near the Marines' gate."

"The Guard is due here within the next hour, and towing those will be one of their first duties."

"Well, I was wondering: why are there vehicles there, and not down by the Hull gate? Parking is legal on the other side of M Street, just not on the side closer to the Yard."

She frowned, though not in disapproval. "There are more residential units down by the Marines' gate than there are by the Hull gate. I assume the vehicles belong to residents."

"I can enlarge the plates in the pictures and run a check. But that's not really my point. Suppose the vehicles brought the attackers, or some of them, anyway. And suppose the attackers parked, and then walked the two blocks up to the Hull gate. Why? Is it because the Hull gate is less fortified, or because they wanted to throw suspicion off another entry point? What if they have someone working with them, inside the Marines?"

She gave him a hard look, and at first he was afraid that he'd overstepped. But then she said, "You reason well, Tim. And if your next point was going to be, 'What if there are moles in the Navy Yard?', then I'm right with you. That's a point always to be considered, but so far only Earl and I have talked about it. Do you suspect someone?"

"No, Director." That was the truth. "It just seemed to be a reasonable possibility. I don't know if it explains anything or not."

"Keep your eyes and ears open, Tim. Let me or Earl know if anything, no matter how small, seems amiss. And tell no one about this."

"Understood." He headed for the large coffeemaker.

"Oh, dump that and make a fresh pot, would you please, Tim? I imagine that pot's undrinkable by now."

He nodded, and pushed the coffemaker's cart out of the room and out the MTAC door for the third floor janitor's closet with its utility sink. Light commotion swirled around him, and he stopped agent Smythe. "Ron? What's up?"

"They're calling teams D and E to the O Street gate," the agent replied, with a delighted grin. "I sure hope the bastards try to attack. I'll show them something!"

"Stay safe," Tim called after him.

When he returned with a full pot of water, Gibbs had joined them. "_Come on,_ McGee; make with the coffee!" said Gibbs. "I'm dying here!" But there was a twinkle in his eye.

"The Guard is just fifteen miles away," Jenny reported, ending the conversation on her phone. "That'll make things a lot easier, I hope." She glanced at the screen carrying ZNN coverage, which was now talking about nothing but the attack on Washington. It included replays of a phone conversation with the base commander, who described in vague terms the downing of the helicopter. He didn't give casualty figures. Tape of the President's statement, issued around midnight, deploring the action. Tape of assorted congressmen and women threatening war or urging calm. Tape of the Mayor of the District, urging everyone to stay far away from the SE sector. The Metro had stopped running trains through that sector. Interviews showed citizens to be frightened and angry that this happened at Christmastime, and, as always, angry that they had no representation in Congress.

"How is it," Tim said, "that TV always makes things seem worse than they are, and yet better than they are? Oh, good; coffee's ready. Uh, you go first, boss." Gibbs nodded, and got in with his large travel mug. Jenny then filled a styrofoam cup for herself, and then Tim filled his mug.

Then, suddenly, the lights went out.

All the screens went black. "Oh, this is _all_ we need," Jenny murmured.

After two beats, Gibbs growled, "Where's the emergency lighting?"

Tim's mind had been set on disaster mode for the last week, as much as he tried to shrug that off. He fumbled for his cell phone. The face lit up, but there were no bars. "Uh, are either of you getting anything on your phones?" _Say 'yes'. Please say 'yes'!_

"Nothing," said Jenny. "Not one bar."

"Me, either," said Gibbs.

"We're in trouble," Tim said, trying to keep from panicking. "No power, no generator, no cell signals—I think they've set off an e-bomb!"

- - - - -

Conklin and Zelig were rousted from their sleep, as were the leaders of the other SA teams but one (who'd been dispatched to relay the news to the O Street gate watchers), and within ten minutes Tim was explaining all this to the group in a room lit by a single votive candle.

"We don't know if the US military has this capability yet—" Tim then saw Jenny's and Conklin's faces, and amended, "okay, _I_ don't know, and I don't want to know, but the theory is that e-bombs are possible. It's a war weapon that creates an intense electromagnetic pulse that stops all electronics dead. No communications, no vehicles, no computers—nothing will work."

"I'd heard something about it," said one of the supervisory SAs from CRFO, "but I always thought it was science fiction."

"The idea's been around since the 1920s," said Tim. "It's called the Compton Effect, after Arthur Compton, a physicist. He had a theory that electrons could be knocked loose by photons and…" he saw Gibbs' stern look. "Well, the bottom line is that it causes massive disruption. We're…kind of…helpless, here…"

"Is it permanent?"

"Maybe. It would depend on how powerful the pulse that generated it was. If it was a low pulse, the effects will fade, maybe in a couple of hours. A medium pulse will damage devices permanently, like making computer data inaccessible. A high pulse will fry electronics completely."

"Do we know which level we're facing?"

"Not a clue. We can't turn the electronics on until we have electricity."

"Do we have any idea how far this affects? Does anyone in the Navy Yard have power?"

"Nope," said Gibbs. "I've been on the rooftop. It's dark in all directions for a mile or so. They've got us in the crosshairs."

"Will the sunken bollards at the Hull gate hold?" Jenny asked. "They're electronically activated."

"They should," said Tim. "They were up, right? So they can't be lowered until we have power again. Remember, this doesn't affect our rifles. They're not electronic. Some of the Marines' weapons, though…if they have chips or signaling parts, they're useless now."

"Start waking up your people," Jenny instructed. "Explain the situation, calmly. We have a ton of votive candles in storage; we'll get them passed out."

"Tell your people to dress warmly," Zelig added. "It's cold out, and this building will start losing heat quickly."

_"Director!!"_ the supervisory special agent who'd gone to the O Street gate was back. _"O Street is now under attack!"_


	5. December 25, predawn

_**Chapter 5: December 25, pre-dawn**_

Gibbs had a better bellowing volume than Jenny did, so she sent him to the balcony. "All teams! All teams! In full body armor, and return here. We have a new attack!" Agents, carrying flashlights or cigarette lighters, turned and ran for their lockers, even those who'd just come in.

"Helen, Jeff, Georgia, come up here, please," Zelig called down to his Intel staff who'd been largely at loose ends for the last few days. When they appeared, he said, "If you don't mind, we've accumulated quite a few mundane tasks that have piled up since the support staff left. Are you willing to pitch in there?"

They nodded. "I've been bored stiff, and with my gimpy leg, I'm no good fighting," said Jeff, a veteran. "I'll wash dishes, or anything you need me to do!" He and the two women were directed to start by handing out the votive candles, and light every third one, for now.

With the return of the agents, Gibbs rolled a piece of cardboard to use as a megaphone, and handed it to Jenny. "You've all heard that the entire area is believed to be without power, and we think that's a result of the terrorist attack. We have no power sources. It will likely starting feeling chilly in here in a few hours. We have no communication with anyone outside. I want one person from each team to peel off and act as a messenger between here and the rest of the Yard. We think the Marines at the Hull gate may want some relief now. Teams A, B and C—you know the way. Last I knew, as of about an hour ago, the Navy was bolstering the O Street gate, so I think that's okay for now. Team F should be coming back from O Street soon."

"What about the Army National Guard?" someone called.

"We last heard, just before the power went, that the Guard was 15 miles away," Jenny said, and cheers went up. "Wait," she said, and the cheers faded.

"I don't know for sure that they're coming directly here, or how long it will take to come. I hope they'll come straight here, and not be pulled off elsewhere. Remember, we may not be the only attack spot in the area." She paused to let this sink in, and ignored the random sob or two she heard.

"This doesn't mean they aren't still coming," Jenny went on. "They're military. This is what they do. I expect that they will march in here, if need be, although how fast that will be, I don't know. But I have every confidence in them. Are there any other questions?" A brief pause. "No? Then get to your stations, everyone, and…"

_"Stay safe,"_ they chorused, and rushed to get into their body armor, a sea of determined voices.

- - - - -

Jenny sent Zelig down to check on the residents of the lower floors. He found Abby sitting on the floor inside a circle of votive candles in assorted colored bowls. Given the deep shadows, he thought it best to announce his presence. "Abby? It's Charles Zelig."

'Oh, hi, Zelig!" She sounded surprised but not enthused, he noticed.

"Abby, do you want to join us upstairs in the squad room? I don't know how long the power's going to be off, and it'll start getting cold in here."

"When is the power company coming to fix it? My phone's not working, either. Weird coincidence, don't you think?"

"Abby…this isn't a simple blackout. We think it's the effect of an e-bomb. That's—"

"An electro-magnetic pulse weapon. Cool." She smiled faintly. "I've never felt the effects of one before." Then her face had the wash of someone barely holding on. "I'd rather not go upstairs. I'd just be in the way."

"Some of the Intel people are running errands and doing support staff work. Would you like to help with that?"

"Yes…if you think I can be useful," she said tentatively.

"Of course you can. Why don't you wait here a moment while I check on Ducky and Jimmy? Then we'll find something good for you to do."

- - - - -

Ducky, Jimmy Palmer, and their nurse were doing quite well. Only two patients were in their makeshift hospital ward; the other casualties were well enough to care for themselves upstairs. Ducky requested more blankets, given that the building would cool down. Then he drew Zelig aside.

"Charles, I must say I'm concerned about the prolonged effects of the lack of power here," he said, quietly. "The morgue drawers will stay relatively cold if we don't open them, but—"

Zelig winced. "Do you have any suggestions, Ducky? I honestly have none, myself."

"Pray…"

- - - - -

Abby followed Zelig up the stairs to the third floor. Cynthia, he explained, was maintaining the list of tasks to be done in her office. Abby and the Intel workers were welcome to come and pick up tasks and do them.

She looked over the squad room as she walked by. There were few people there, and the ones not close by were hard to make out in the candlelight. At Tim's desk, she could make out Faith Underhill, and she suppressed the growl that wanted to get out of her throat. _I'm not jealous of her…she and Tim are just working together…and when all this is over they'll go out on some hot dates and—stop it, Abby. __There's probably nothing going on between them._

_I still don't trust her, though. And I don't want her hurting my__ friend, my__ McGee._

- - - - -

Gibbs looked at his watch. Not yet 5AM. He felt like the battle had been going on for weeks, when in fact it was well under 12 hours. Two and a half hours until dawn, and even that looked like it would be murky. Washington was chilly this Christmas morning; a little stale snow remained from last week's storm of one inch, and the temperature hovered just under freezing. There was no wind, as if Nature herself abhorred the war, and was holding her breath to see what would happen.

There was no light to go by, other than the flash of rifle fire. All of the SAs wore night vision goggles, which provided scant information because the ambient light was scarce; aided only by the reflection of the remaining snow. It cheered the SAs to think that their enemy's prime attack weapons were now useless. But the attackers still had rifles and handguns, and…an explosion shook the earth before they saw the weapon coming…_grenades._

"Fall back!" Gibbs called, and the agents did so. It seemed like things were worse, instead of better. He quickly counted noses; miraculously, it appeared that no one had been injured in the grenade attack.

"Boss," Tony hissed. "Ziva and I have an idea: what if we were to get out and get behind those guys? I've been watching them, and they never look to their rear."

"No," said Gibbs.

"But, Gibbs, I have done just this action at least a dozen times," Ziva protested.

"No. There are too many unknowns here. It would be suicidal. Now get back to your positions." He wished he believed that there would be some use in him letting them go ahead with their plan, but he couldn't see it. There was already too much death around them. Now when the Guard arrived, it might be different…

- - - - -

Tim left MTAC around 6AM, having felt his usefulness there had run out. Zelig and Conklin, both veterans, were swapping war stories and discussing military tactics that went over Tim's head.

He headed for his desk, and was glad to find Faith there. Tim nabbed a lit candle from an unoccupied desk, and sat down beside Faith. "What are you up to?"

"Thinking," she said. "Fortunately, that requires neither moving parts nor electrical power."

"True enough," he laughed, and drew paper and a pen from his desk. "Let's think together, unless you'd rather go it alone…? Fine. I want to brainstorm. How are these guys hammering at our gates, and not getting in? Are we that good?"

"Well, I hope so!"

"Stop. No cheerleading. Why haven't they tried to come in by boat, for example?"

"Um…the base at Anacostia has closed off traffic on the river?"

"Maybe. I'll come back to that. Why haven't they tried to come in by plane, or helicopter?"

"This is a no-flyover zone now."

"Okay. But is there another reason?" When Faith looked blank, Tim rapped his pen end impatiently on the desk. "Oh, come on, Faith! You're in Intel! _Think!"_

She shook her head. "I don't know what you're getting at. I'm sorry! I'm getting cold! I can't think!"

Tim pulled her sweater off the back of her chair, and draped it over her shoulders. "I didn't mean to give you a hard time. The point I was trying to make was: Suppose they're not trying to invade by those routes because they don't need to_Because they're already here?"_

"They're…here?! Where?!"

"If I knew that, I'd be…the SECNAV, maybe."

"So they had like a…a pre-invasion force? And they're hiding out inside the Yard?"

"Possibly. Or they may have double agents working among us."

"I think that's a little far-fetched. I've heard it can take years for a double agent to feel in place and be useful."

He smiled. "And just how long have you been working for NCIS?"

"Eleven months, plus three months of training. Why? Do you suspect_ me?"_

"No way. Okay, maybe the pre-invasion force is more likely. So that means they're hiding here in the Yard somewhere, possibly waiting for the right moment to do something really terrible."

"Like blow up this building."

"I hope not! Maybe set buildings on fire, though: alarms and sprinkler systems won't work now. Force their way into a building, like ours, and kill a bunch of people."

Faith shook. "This is all so terrible to think about! Is there anything you and I can do?"

Tim teased the flame of his candle with his pen. "When we have something more concrete than conjectures, we can go to the Director, or Conklin, or Zelig with it. Where could they be hiding?"

"Hmmm…things have been pretty much closed for s week, since the alert level went up…but people still came to work…how about the tourist attractions, the Navy Museum and the _Barry?"_

He rose, slowly. "That's…_brilliant!_ Of course! Let's go tell the Director, right now!"

"Tim! Wait! I'm probably entirely wrong about this!"

"So? No one is right all the time."

"But this is so important! I don't want to waste the Director's time if it's all for nothing!"

"Faith, she won't be mad if you're proven wrong. I know her. Believe me."

She grabbed his arm and dug in her heels as he tried to head for the stairs for the third floor._"Wait!"_ she said again. "Can't we just…check it out ourselves, first?"

"Are you nuts?? If there is a nest of invaders, they'll blow us away!"

"I don't mean get close enough to get in trouble. Just to see if maybe anyone's there who shouldn't be there."

"We have to have permission to leave the building. I might be able to get it, because I'm an agent. You don't have a chance."

"We'll tell the guard we have to deliver a message to Gibbs, and I'm coming along because…it's in a language you don't speak, but I do."

Tim rolled his eyes. "That's so farfetched it'd probably work! Come on, then; get your coat. If we're going to get fired, we might as well be dressed warmly enough for it."

- - - - -

The guard accepted the outrageous claim. Bundled against the cold, they hustled out and crossed Sicard Street. "Should we check the Navy Museum first?" Tim asked. "We could look in the front windows."

"I have a hunch the _Barry_ is the clue," Faith said, and cast an affectionate look at the old destroyer, now in permanent mooring as a display ship and museum. "There are lots of places on board where people could hide."

"True," said Tim, wishing he didn't have to. He hated going onto ships and boats; hated the inevitable seasickness. But he pressed on, and he and Faith crossed little Willard Park to the pier where the _Barry_ was anchored.

He hopped over the chain that blocked entry to the gangplank, not sure what kind of security the ship had. "Ahoy, the _Barry_!" he called. "Permission to come aboard!"

A Petty Officer, flashlight in hand, appeared on the deck, and shone it in their faces. "Mr. McGee, sir! Yes, certainly, come on board!" He hastily undid the chain at his end of the gangplank."Can you tell me what's going on, sir? I can't leave my post, and all I know is we're in a big blackout, sir. Look, sir! Even the Anacostia base is dark!"

"Levitz, has there been anyone unusual come on board in the last week or so?"

"In the last week? Not that I recall, sir. Well, you know we get lots of school groups, but since the 18th we've cancelled all bookings. So it's been real, real quiet, sir."

"I'm sure there must be someone!" Faith said firmly.

"Fsith, come on! We have our answer!" Tim said, embarrassed by her stubbornness. "Let's check the Navy Museum."

"No! The answer is here!" she insisted. "This is the final answer! It's got to be here!"

Tim and PO Levitz exchanged glances. "Sorry for taking up your time, Levitz. We'll just—"

He never got to finish the sentence, as the ship burst in a huge explosion; hellish orange and red flames and debris flying everywhere.

- - - - -

The blast could be heard for blocks. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Something big. Our building?" Tony moaned. From their point near the Hull gate, they couldn't see anything for a moment until flames rose above a nearby building. Ziva, immediately, was posed to run, and Gibbs signaled her to do so.

She was back just as fast. "It is the _Barry_," she reported. "It is on fire. More I could not see."

"Why would they attack an uninhabited ship, when there are more satisfactory targets around?" Tony wondered.

"Other than to let us know they've gotten through the gates?" Gibbs asked him.

- - - - -

Half an hour passed. Shortly before 7, when their world was still dark and cold, a group of Marines came up to replace Team A, Gibbs' group. They were glad for the relief, and stiffly walked back to NCIS. The _Barry_ still burned: a horrible sight, but at least she hadn't sunk. The Yard fire department was using a mechanical pump to deliver water through a hose, drawing it directly from the river.

"We should help them," said Ziva, and Tony nodded, unable to take his eyes off the ship.

"Jethro!" Jenny called from the NCIS doorway. "Come here! _Now!"_

He went to her, leaving Ziva and Tony near the _Barry_. "What happened? he asked Jenny, noticing that she was accompanied by Conklin and PO Levitz, the usual night guard of the _Barry_. All looked grim; Levitz was soaking wet and had a blanket wrapped around him.

"Let's step into the lobby," said Jenny. "I don't want Petty Officer Levitz to get a chill." Once inside, she turned to Gibbs, and the pain was evident on her face. "Jethro…Faith Underhill and Tim McGee were on the _Barry_ when it blew. We don't really know why yet, except that Levitz thinks she was looking for…someone, maybe members of the attacking forces there. She was insistent." She looked to Levitz for confirmation, and he nodded.

"Are they okay?" Gibbs asked.

"Faith's body was recovered quickly," Jenny said, choking. "She…turned up right near the dock. Tim's…Tim's hasn't been found yet; it's still too dark and the _Barry_ is too dangerous and we don't have the people to spare for a search…"

"But he could still be alive!"

"Jethro, Jethro…it's been over half an hour now; more like 45 minutes. He hasn't surfaced. Even if he survived the initial blast…"

Gibbs lowered his head and felt his heart both thudding like a worn drum and dissolving at the same time. Without a word, he broke away from them and went back outside.

Tony and Ziva were where he'd left them, still staring at the _Barry_. Getting between them, he put an arm around each of them.


	6. December 25, approaching dawn

_**Chapter 6: December 25, approaching **__**dawn**_

She was in Cynthia's office, apparently sorting again through tasks needing doing when Gibbs came in, walking with a lit votive candle in a jar, as most people were doing. He thought then he would always remember her as she was at this moment: diligent, intent, uncomplaining. Unaware that her happy world was about to shatter, with nothing she could do to prevent it.

"Abby…"

She looked up and smiled; the lit angles of her face and ponytails a little freakish in the candlelight. "Hi, Gibbs! What's the news?" But then in his face she could see it; something terribly wrong, and she felt her body temperature drop. "Gibbs?" she whispered.

"Did you hear the explosion? That was the _Barry_."

"On, _no!_ That beautiful ship!"

"Abby…McGee was on the ship. I don't know why. He's…"

"No."

"He was killed, Abby. I'm sorry." He set his candle down and held out his arms to her.

_"No…"_ To Gibbs' surprise, she didn't fall into the embrace. Instead, she stepped back, hugging herself and looking to her side, looking at nothing._"No.__."_

He tried again, but she shied away. "Please," she said, "I'd rather be alone." She sank to the floor and sat with her back to the wall, vaguely aware of the rough texture of the carpet; vaguely aware that Gibbs had left.

_Why did I ever think__ a hug __would__ make things all right?! __How can it make anything right, ever again? __Oh, Tim, Tim…_ And then the tears came, in a flood.

- - - - -

Jenny was lugging a large white board, longer than she was tall, when Gibbs came down the stairs to the squad room. "Let me help you with that," he said, and grabbed an end without waiting for an invitation.

"Thanks, Jethro. Let's take it over here, by the windows. Prop it up on those three chairs I've lined up." When they'd done that, she pulled out three tall candles in glass containers, and, setting one on each chair, lit them.

Gibbs could then read the board, and the hand-lettered words made him choke. On the right-hand side, under the heading, _Our Brave Wounded_ were nine names. His lips moved as he read them silently; even though he felt like he'd been everywhere, he hadn't been able to keep up. _Joshua Horton. Mike Goldberg. Emmie Burns. James Palomar. Shirl White. Pascal Laroche. Jim Waldron. __Phil Mendoza. Liz Herman._

The left-hand side—closer to the heart?—bore the legend, _Fallen in Service to__ Their Country, But Never to Be Forgotten._ Six names. Far, far too many. _Antoine Daubeny. __Laurence O'Gowan. Rhonda Schofield. __Alexander Baker__. Faith Underhill. Timothy McGee._ Gibbs touched the board, ever so carefully; smearing a name would have been a sacrilege.

He couldn't suppress the choke. Jenny, at his side, was likewise unsuccessful in holding back tears. "Why did this happen, Jethro? Why to us? Why to _them_?"

"I don't know." No use trying to elaborate. With a kind hand on her shoulder, he guided her away. Others were already trying to see the white board. His last thought, before steering his mind toward the next vital item, was that he'd like to take the white board's tethered marker and throw it far away, so no more names could be added.

- - - - -

At the O Street gate, teams D and E, with the Navy, were struggling. Unlike the shock of the initial level of destruction felt by the teams at the Hull gate, however, the O Street fighters had had time to push large, solid objects, such as dumpsters and, in one case, a beat-up car volunteered by its owner, into place. This offered them a little shelter.

"We don't need to defeat them," said the agent in charge, a former Navy officer and tactician . "Although that would be nice. All we really need to do is hold the line until the National Guard gets here."

Of course, nothing was that simple. Two more agents sustained injuries, and the question rose in many minds: _What if we run low on combatants before the Guard arrives?_ There could come a point at which too few able-bodied people were left to mount a defense. What then? Would there be a slaughter? When the attackers broke through the gate, what would they do? Set off bombs? Torch buildings? Take hostages? Commit mass murder? There wasn't a combatant who didn't wish for the opportunity to make a phone call, perhaps a last phone call, to loved ones.

- - - - -

In the squad room, Gibbs grabbed a few minutes of quiet at his desk, scribbling notes to himself on scratch paper. He looked up, hoping to see his team members busy looking over the Navy Yard perimeter maps they'd pulled from storage to identify possible weak spots that should be bolstered. Instead, Tony was staring at Tim's desk, his face displaying his misery.

_"DiNozzo!" _

It took the second utterance to rouse Tony, though his gaze didn't change. "Yeah, boss."

Gibbs went over to stand by Tony's desk, and his voice was quiet and raspy when he spoke. "We'll all grieve later, I promise. But right now, I need you to focus."

"Yeah, boss. Sure." Tony turned back to the map on his desk, wiping his eyes as he did so. He didn't acknowledge, but was grateful for, the pat on his shoulder as Gibbs walked out for an MTAC meeting.

Tony stole a last look at Tim's desk, then sighed and turned toward Ziva. "How do you do it?"

"Do what? she asked. She had pulled her long knitted scarf off the coat rack and was about to don it as protection against the increasing chill in the building.

"Be so blasé. McGee dies, and it appears you don't care at all. What would it take; all of us to die before you even blinked?"

"I do care. I care very much. He was a loyal coworker, a friend, and a good man."

He jumped up. "Well, then, why don't you act like it, Zee-vah? I'm barely able to keep from crying like a little girl. I know _I _care, but you—you have no heart, as far as I can tell. To you, this is just a bump in the road until we get a new team member. I just don't understand you!"

She wove the scarf around one hand. "You do not have my background, Tony. I have had many people in my life die: family, coworkers, friends…"

"Well, then, it must be nice to not feel pain. Did the Mossad teach you that?"

"It is not so much a teaching, as it is something you learn for yourself…"

"Aha! You admit it!"

"…something necessary to survive." The scarf was unwound, then wound again. "There is love in all our hearts. You wrap your heart to envelop, warmly, those who are meaningful to you. You wrap and cover them, and you, and yet sometimes you become separated from them, but still the wrapping remains. It is a layer that both keeps warmth in and keeps warmth out. And year after year, the layer becomes very thick,.."

Tony walked slowly to her desk. "Yeah, I see now. Sorry." He held out his hand, palm up. After a moment, she handed him the scarf.

He walked behind her chair, and wrapped the scarf once around her neck, loosely. "Stay warm."

- - - - -

"The Guard should have been here by now," Intel head Zelig grumbled, stroking his beard. "What do you suppose is keeping them?!"

"Could be anything," MTAC chief Conklin replied. "My greatest fear—"

"What?" asked Jenny.

"Well, what if the attack isn't confined to the Navy Yard? What if other parts of the District are now under siege? And why stop at Washington? Why not New York, Chicago, L.A.? What if it's also London and Paris and Melbourne and Moscow??

"World War III. Begun at Christmas, when people's guards are down."

"Could be," said Gibbs, "but that's only speculation. I can only work with what I can see."

"And what _do_ you see, Gibbs?" Conklin's eyes narrowed.

"I was up on the roof a little while ago. I could see lights on maybe two miles away. I couldn't recognize any landmarks. The Capitol Building must be dark. It's dark across the Anacostia, too, including our base."

"There's our answer," Zelig sighed. "The Guard has been peeled off to keep order around the Capitol."

Gibbs sighed. He doubted Conklin was right, though his notions weren't implausible. Still, the man seemed bent on alarming them. Did he just naturally panic under pressure? "We have other things to consider in the short run," he said. "Our people are facing exhaustion. They can't be expected to fight for too many more hours without more rest."

Jenny nodded, but it was something they already knew. "Earl," she said, "suppose one of the gates falls, and the attackers get in." As the three men cried out protests, she banged her fist on the desk until they were silent. _"Just suppose,_ because it may well happen. I will not stand for my people to be mowed down helplessly.

"This is my plan: If one or more of the gates fall, all NCIS people are to fall back inside the NCIS building. We will defend it from the inside. For as long as we can hold out. Is that clear?"

They nodded, "For as long as we can hold out," Zelig repeated.


	7. December 25, approaching dawn, part 2

_**Chapter 7: December 25, approaching dawn, part 2**_

The water swirled around him, as if enraged over his dropping in. Pain and shock, but not disorientation; due to his years as an agent he could now force himself to assess situations rapidly. The _Barry_—something had happened to the ship. An explosion? He pushed his way to the surface; gasped and sucked in larges gulps of air. Still too dark to see far, but the burning ship threw jagged beams and shadows for a fair distance, allowing some recognition. A shape floated near him, just below the water surface. He dived to meet it.

_Faith_. Her light blue eyes had lost the glasses and stared, sightlessly, horrifyingly, as her hair bobbed in the current's wake. After a moment to absorb this, he rose again to the surface again and choked in frustration at not being able to do anything for her. He would be lucky to do anything for himself, now. The initial shock over, his body was sending damage reports to his brain. The greatest complainers were nerves around his upper right leg—it must be injured. A shrapnel hit, something off the _Barry_, most likely. Something less direct than the hit that killed Faith. _Got to get out…cold…_

The water temperature was warmer than the air temperature, but not by much. He could already feel himself stiffening. Shouts arose on the shore—must be the attackers; whoever had blown up the Barry. He choked again to think that they'd gotten into the Navy Yard. How long would it be before all the buildings, including NCIS, fell? Would the National Guard arrive in time?

Something bumped him from behind, and he fell forward into the water. Coughing and gasping when he surfaced again, barely able to see for his coughing, he felt his inanimate nudger. Large, wooden, curved…a lifeboat! It must have come loose from its moorings on the _Barry_! Cautiously, he moved around it, feeling it, gently rocking it…he could detect no damage to the boat, and dubbed it his new beast of burden. With some struggle, he pulled himself into the boat and dropped into the center, breathless.

Being in the boat wasn't enough. He was soaked, and the air temperature was just above freezing. And he was wounded. A wave of nausea hit him—no doubt a combination of shock and his usual seasickness, After heaving the contents of his stomach, he got onto his knees and felt around in the dim light cast by the burning _Barry_ for storage units. _There_! He pulled out a couple of woolen blankets, a pillow, and a first aid kit. Dropping his pants, he gingerly felt the wound on his upper leg. It was bleeding lustily, but he couldn't feel any foreign substances in it. He packed a gauze bandage around it and taped it, then pulled his pants back on.

The lifeboat seemed to read his thoughts, or at least responded to his movements, and broke free of the shore's pull. It started to drift in the river's current. Tim McGee gave into his body's demands and, with the blankets wrapped around him, fell asleep as the boat drifted down the Anacostia River.

- - - - -

Jenny watched, her face bland, as the meeting in her office broke up. Zelig and Conklin strolled out, Gibbs a step or two behind them. It was only Gibbs, though, who looked back and read something on her face depite the lack of expression. Wordlessly he continued the walk to the door, then, a few beats after the other two men had gone, he quietly closed the door and turned back to the Director. "What is it, Jen?"

She stared at the closed door. "Conklin and Zelig…one of them is a double agent. Connected with this damned matter."

"One of them's a double agent?" Gibbs repeated, dumbly.

"If luck is with us, it's only one of them. Jethro, I've run all the numbers in my head—I don't dare write anything down—over the last couple of weeks. Even before the 17th, when the chatter pointed to the Navy, I had suspicions. Information has been leaking out of the agency. It's got to be coming from one of them."

"Have you told anyone about this?"

"Just the SECNAV. We'd agreed to take a wait-and-see position."

Gibbs rubbed his head. "This is so hard to believe. I've known Conklin for at least ten years, and Zelig—well, Zelig I only met when the rest of us did, when he came here from San Diego two years ago. I can't say I know either one well, but I've never had reason to mistrust either."

"What's your impression of their characters?"

"Okay. Both seem honest and dedicated. Zelig is more open in a left-coast kind of way, and more of a liberal; Conklin's more old school and conservative, but he's got close to 20 years on Zelig. And none of that means anything when you're fishing for double agents."

"I'm not fishing. With the SECNAV's permission, I slipped a little classified-but-doctored information regarding the structure of the gates two weeks ago."

"Jen!"

"Yes, we were aware that an attack on the Navy was a possibility as long as three weeks ago. And I didn't tell you about it. Get over yourself. The upper layers of management will always hold some information and not let it filter down immediately."

"Jen, you're saying that you deliberately allowed some of our people to be caught in the line of fire??"

"With doctored data! The information the SECNAV and I allowed to get out implied that our gate defenses are weaker than they are. It was a calculated move done to draw the attention of the attackers."

"Draw the—! Jen, five special agents and one Intel agent have _died!"_

"I _know_ that!...Jethro, this is war. And I knew it was going to be war from the start. I knew we might lose some people. But everything I did, I swear, was to try to minimize our losses. It could have been so much worse."

"It may still be," he said, only partially mollified. "There's no doubt that things will get worse. Maybe very soon.How will you feel about your secret knowledge then, Director?"

Her eyes flashed. "I haven't told you everything yet."

"Oh, are you going to do that?"

She glared at him, but went on. "Right now I'm only mourning five of the dead. Faith Underhill was known to the SECNAV and I to be a double agent."

"What?! And you allowed her the full run of Intel?! Just how long, Jen, have you been holding onto this little bit of information?!"

"About a month, six weeks. Actually, her psychological profile on hiring alone raised a few alarms—some of her test answers are known, under sensitive studies, to point toward personality types that verge on duplicity. But her other scores were so good that we took her on, hoping that the psych tests were wrong. She was flagged and watched. We found evidence that she'd been in contact with foreign agents on the terrorist watch list. It was only a matter of time before she slipped up and exposed herself."

"Instead, she managed to get herself taken out. And she took McGee with her," Gibbs said coldly.

She lowered her eyes. "I know it seems harsh. And I don't expect you to forgive me any time soon. I'm not entirely sure I'll forgive myself. But I did what I did to save the greater number of people.

_"A nation can survive it__s fools, and even the ambitious,_" she said._"__But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself.__"_

"Cicero," said Gibbs._"__For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murder is less to fear.__"_ He sighed. "All right. I assume you're suddenly telling me this for a reason."

"I need you to be my second pair of eyes and ears. Help me determine who the traitor is: Conklin, Zelig, or both."

"Normally, I'd be glad to help, Jen, but I'm stretched too thin as it is."

"This is a priority. I can't just lock them away on suspicions, particularly if one of them is innocent. We need all the help we can get. Get me evidence, Jethro, and fast."

"I'll do what I can."

- - - - -

Tim woke after not-too-long a nap and found the eastern sky graying. He could make out things on the southern shore: the air base! The Anacostia Naval station would be right next to it, a little further downstream. It seemed like a natural destination. Maybe he could strategize with them for help for the Navy Yard.

He took stock. His leg was still painful, and felt hot…might be an infection. But he still had upper arm strength, and fit the oars in the oar locks. A little out of practice in rowing, he pulled the boat in a circle initially before getting a rhythm and setting for the shore.

Only about 100 yards out from the darkened base, he heard a voice come through a non-powered megaphone. "Ahoy, you in the boat! Halt and surrender now, or face being fired on!"

Tim stood, cautiously, before his weak leg gave way and he fell to his knees. A shot cracked the air and nicked Tim's life boat. Before he knew it, three seamen in a rowboat had come out to meet him.

"I'm NCIS!" he protested. "I've come to you for help! I know your commander; he'll vouch for me.'

"The commander's on vacation," said one of the three, as a second handcuffed Tim. "We'll see what the acting commander has to say."


	8. December 25, morning

_**Chapter 8: December 2**__**5, morning**_

"So we're supposed to take you at your word that you're an NCIS special agent?" acting base commander Lieutenant Commander Terence Bila scowled in the lights of several large battery lanterns. "At a time like this, when you arrive on our shore wearing a bullet-proof vest, and a gun holster, empty, but no identification at all?" He leaned in close to Tim's face and murmured, "I would think that a spy would have the sense to carry _some_ id—even if it _is_ falsified."

Tim was sweating, though whether through worry or his leg wound, he wasn't sure. "As I told you, I was on the _Barry_ when it blew up. I was thrown into the water, and I must have lost my wallet and my belt badge and firearm then." From his chair, he glanced around the office of the commander; three stern-looking Naval guards stood watchful. Not that he had any plans of escaping, considering his wrists were handcuffed behind him.

"Please," said Tim. "I know you can't phone the commander since the phones don't work, but he _does_ know me. I've been here four or five times in the last two years, helping him with his computer issues."

"Can you prove that?" Bila said roughly. "These are perilous times. It's incumbent on you to prove your innocence."

"I can't." Tim hung his head. He didn't really blame Bila for his caution, though of course this was not helping him get back to the Navy Yard. He racked his mind, trying to think of names of base personnel who would know him. Unfortunately, the commander had given him privileges for his tech visits that always let Tim zip in to see him, without going through layers of guards and desk jockeys. Every time, he had received an escort from the gate directly to the commander's office, but his escort was different each time—they wouldn't remember him.

"Lock him up," Bila snapped to the guards.

Two of the guards flanked him, and pulled him to his feet. His leg injury suddenly mounted a protest as it bore his weight again, and he gasped then as everything went black before him.

- - - - -

Gibbs took some downtime, and ordered Team A to do the same. He stretched out on his cot (he could have chosen one on the third floor with the rest of management, but instead had opted for one with the great masses in the gym) and closed his eyes, but found sleep eluded him. _Who is our double agent—Conklin or Zelig? How can we expose him? Are we doing all we can to defend the gates? How many more losses can we take? There needs to be more than one of me. __I really need sleep before I can lead the team in combat again…_

It did seem like he had dropped off for awhile, when a nudging came at his shoulder. "Boss…"

Gibbs yawned. "Yeah, DiNozzo. I sent you off to sleep."

"I forgot how. I need to talk to you about something."

"This better be good…" This was said for show. Gibbs knew that Tony wouldn't dare come after him unless it was something really big, and he knew that _Tony_ knew this, but other people could be listening. He grunted as he rose, and followed Tony out into the hall, rubbing his eyes.

"Boss, sorry about this. This was the only time I could think to catch you." He looked nervous, but Gibbs waived him to continue. Tony started to speak again, then motioned Gibbs to the stairwell. They climbed to the roof, and stood there in the feeble, milky morning light.

"I suspect we have trouble from within, and I know it sounds horrid to say it, boss, but I had to tell _someone_. And there's no one I trust more than you."

"What do you mean, you suspect someone? Suspect them of what?"

Tony rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Well, it might be treason, I guess. Whatever you'd call working against us. If by 'us' you mean America, which I guess you'd have to, since is an attack on the military. That is—"

Gibbs held up a tired hand to stop him. Tony lacking sleep was sounding like Gibbs felt, lacking coffee. "Do you have someone specific in mind?"

Tony looked a little shocked, as if surprised that Gibbs had entertained him that far. "Maybe not, but—"

"Then—"

"But it's one out of two. Zelig or Conklin. I swear, boss, I'm not making this up, and I hope you don't think me out of line accusing them—"

It felt to Gibbs like a hammer blow to his chest. He forced himself to think very, very quickly; Tony would be expecting him to say something. _If he's twigged to this, who else has? _"What makes you suspect them?" he said, his face carefully bland.

"That's the thing. I can't put my finger on it. It's just that I've seen both of them, separately, appear to sneak off, looking a little furtive, and more than once. Do you think I'm being paranoid, boss?"

"No, I don't. And in times like this, it's necessary to be a little less trusting. Who else have you told about this?"

"Why, no one, boss."

"Not Ziva?"

"No, not Ziva, not McG—" Recognizing his gaffe, Tony covered his face with his hands, but a few tears leaked through his fingers.

Gibbs put his hands on Tony's shoulders. "You need sleep. Go grab at least four hours. Thanks for telling me this, but don't tell anyone, okay? Not Ziva, not the Director, not a soul. There's too much danger in being overheard. But if you get any more information, let me know immediately."

Tony nodded, wiping the tears away. "I will."

After Tony went inside, Gibbs stood for a long, quiet moment on the roof, surveying a Washington corner that was Christmas-morning quiet, other than the cracking of rifle fire from the gates. _How will this all end? _Not getting an answer, he went back inside.

- - - - -

Jenny gazed out her windows, having raised all the blinds to let in daylight, and cutting the number of burning candles in her office down to one. They didn't have an unlimited number of candles or matches, and heaven only knew how much longer they'd be without power. There was no sunlight; just another murky morning; no cheer with the coming of the day.

She yearned to get out on the front lines, fighting, with her people. That, however, was not possible, given her title as Director. She had to stay back and manage things. If necessary, if her middle management fell, she would have to manage for them as well.

She would not leave things to Conklin and Zelig. NCIS had to be protected; if she fell, by God she would see that they went down with her.

There was a soft tap at her door. "Director?" Cynthia called in, softly, and closed the door behind her.

"Yes; I'm over here, at the window."

"Do you have a few minutes for Ducky?"

"Of course. Send him in, please." _One doesn't recognize how valuable little things like an intercom are until they're not there…_

"Jennifer," Ducky strode in, carrying his candle. "I'm beginning to feel like Wee Willie Winkie, going through the town."

A smile crossed her lips. "Are you asking if I'm in my bed? It's not nine o'clock yet."

"That's almost right, however. When was the last time you slept, Jennifer?"

"You really _are_ checking up on people, then."

"As the _de facto_ agency physician, yes, I see that as my duty. You cannot hope to perform at your best on too little sleep. How much sleep did you get last night? Any?"

"About two hours." There was no point in lying to him. "I want to sleep, Ducky, but it's just not practical right now."

"Rubbish! You have plenty of management types who can fill in for you for four hours, even longer. Charles, Earl…either would be up to the task. Or your middle management, like Jethro or one of the supervisory special agents from the CRFO."

"Jethro just went down. I'm not sure about the others. I _will_ get some sleep, Ducky, but I really can't just yet."

_"Jennifer…"_

Inspiration struck. "Ducky, would you go check on Charles and Earl? I am concerned about them, because I value their expertise…"

"I shall be glad to, my dear. I would have done so sooner or later, anyway. Would you like me to report back to you?"

"Oh, would you?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager. "But please don't tell them I was checking up on them…" _Having you check up for me will be good enough!i_

"It shall be our secret," he smiled, and left.

_I'll have to keep tabs on them round the clock, _Jenny thought. _Jethro and I may have to sleep in shifts to watch them._

- - - - -

Tim came to on a gurney. Large brown eyes in an attractive face looked down on him, cautiously friendly.

"Hi, there. I'm Lieutenant Commander Sykora, the base doctor. That's quite a gash you have in your leg," the face attached to the brown eyes said. "After giving you a local anesthetic, I cleaned the wound out as best as I could, considering we have no power, and put in a few stitches. But I really want you to be seen at a hospital, for a more thorough cleansing and treatment. Nasty stuff in the water, plus whatever gouged a hole in you…"

"Not much chance of a hospital for me, if they're going to hold me as a prisoner," Tim sighed, fingering his hospital gown.

"As soon as we can get transport, you're going," Sykora said firmly. "If they want to keep you under guard, fine. But I'm not going to sit here and log you withering away when you could be getting—"

"Log! That's _it!"_ Tim snapped his fingers. "Could you get Lieutenant Commander Bila in here? I can prove my case!"

- - - - -

Bila wasn't about to be at his prisoner's beck and call, but within an hour, he consented to have Tim brought into the commander's office by wheelchair, with guards. "So, you've thought something up?"

Tim held his temper. "I remembered something. Like I said, I've been here several times in the last two years to help the commander with his computer. That one," he pointed. "No, not the desktop. The laptop. Turn it on."

Frowning, Bila said, "You want me to turn this on? How will this help you?"

"No, don't bother turning it on. Because of the e-pulse it won't work. But in Commander Alvarez' desk drawer there should be printouts of the history of the particular programs I installed on that laptop to meet the commander's specific needs. I can name them for you, and you can verify that they're there."

"Everyone has more or less the same programs," Bila scoffed. "Internet Explorer, Power Point, Excel—" He rummaged in the desk drawer and brought out papers.

"Not those. Look for a program called _Betty's Barnacles_. It's a program that measures various aspects of sea water in the western hemisphere."

"Why, I never heard of such a…son of a gun," said Bila, his eyes growing a size as he looked at the papers.

"I installed it…let's see, February 10th of this year. No, the 11th. That was a Friday."

"Um…that's the installation date, all right."

"Then there's _Red Sky By Morning_, a meteorological program. I installed it in June…June 20th, I'm pretty sure. Yeah. And, oh! One of my favorites is _Humpty—"_

"Enough. I'm convinced. All right, Agent McGee, you're free to go. Sorry that we had to detain you."

"He's free to go to a _hospital_, Terence!" shouted the doctor, from the back of the room.

"That's up to him, Cathy," said Bila. "He's not under my command."

"I really need to get back to the Navy Yard," said Tim. "I've been working with Intel there. I'm needed." _Well, I hope so. I was brought up to be rather modest._ Realizing the state he was in, he frowned. He was weak, and getting back to the Navy Yard would mean rowing against the current.

As if reading his mind, Bila said, "We'll row you back there. You don't look like you're in any shape to do so yourself. Is there anything we can send with you that the Navy Yard could use?"

"Manpower," Tim laughed, but was surprised when Bila nodded.

"We've got a dozen lifeboats in storage. We can send as many men in them as they can reasonably carry. When they reach the yard, we'll send 'em back for more men. Phil," he said to his aide, "assemble squads D, E, F and G; have them arm up and put on body armor. They leave in half an hour."

Tim grinned. It might not make a big difference, but it would certainly help.


	9. December 25, approaching noon

_**Chapter 9: December 25, **__**approaching**__** noon**_

Gibbs sent Tony and Ziva to check on the Marines gate in the late morning, since no news had come out of there in hours. They showed their IDs to the guard at the Yard-side entrance, and entered. Housing units ringed the large cobblestone courtyard. Marines in camo scurried to and fro.

"Tony!" A major broke off from his conversation with a couple of warrant officers, and strode over to them. "I hope you're bringing us news…"

"Hi, Vic; I was hoping you'd be doing the same." He introduced Ziva to Major Stallings, whom he'd known since his early NCIS days. "You guys doing okay at your gate?"

"Sure. We haven't had any disturbances the way the other two gates have. No idea why. But we're not standing down; not one bit."

"I don't blame you," said Tony.

"We heard the Hull gate has been a death pit."

Tony looked aside, in pain. He'd never been in the military, and had no idea if he could face this sort of thing day in and day out. "It's like I imagine hell to be. So many dead…"

"You NCISers are doing a great job, considering you're not military. You should be proud of yourselves."

"Thanks," Tony said, feeling his eyes to be dry and hard.

"We lost our teammate," Ziva explained, softly. "Timothy McGee."

"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. I knew him, a little. A good man."

"Yeah…" Tony said, unable to vocalize his thoughts. "Listen, Vic; we appreciate the help you Marines have given us at the Hull gate."

"Our pleasure. We'll continue to send as many as we can."

"That's good of you. Really."

"Well, it's not just an NCIS fight, or a Navy fight, or a Marines fight. It's a _Navy Yard_ fight. And who knows how far beyond this extends?" He shook his head and moved off to deal with a new crisis.

Ziva had been studying the sky. "I want to go up there," she said.

"Where? To the officers' quarters?" A ghost of a grin crossed his face.

"No, Tony," she sighed. "To the roof tops. I want to study the perimeter of the Navy Yard for weaknesses."

"Didn't we do that earlier, with the maps?"

"We started to. Now that we are outside, I can do it, for real."

"Now that's just plain nuts! If the attackers see you, they'll shoot you down!"

"They will not see me," she said confidently. "The wind has changed to the east, and fog is appearing."

The daylight did seem to have dimmed, and Leutze Park between the Marines compound and the river had become murky and mysterious. "All right," Tony sighed. "Vic can direct us to the rooftop."

" 'Us?' Tony, there is no 'us'. I am doing this alone. This is something I have done before, several times."

"So you can show me," Tony retorted. "I'm not as afraid of being a target up there as I am returning to Gibbs without you."

She smirked. "Then ask your friend, and let us begin."

- - - - -

Vic unlocked the door that lead to the sloping roof, with an admonishment to be careful. This proved to be wise in more than one regard. The steep slope of the roof was tricky to maneuver, wet in the damp air. Their camo outfits, though, did melt into the dark gray shingles—that was one good thing.

Starting on the 11th Street end, Ziva took them from one end of the compound to the other, trying to peer up enough over the roof to see the street, without being seen. "Now what?" asked Tony, when the trek turned up nothing useful.

"We go on to the next building," Ziva replied. Indeed, this would not be hard to do, since the buildings interlaced along M Street, forming one long wall of different heights in different spots. And so they went, sometimes a little more visible than others; becoming less so as the chill, damp fog did its own invasion. Slide down one slope; leap to a ledge and climb. Hold on; don't think about falling, you won't fall.

"Hey!" Tony called, softly, after stopping for a moment. Ziva had gotten a little ahead of him. "Come look at this."

They were about halfway to the Hull gate. The wall here—brick , like most of the Navy Yard buildings, topped with a cement layer—rose about ten feet above M Street, unadorned on the street side. "Look down there." Tony pointed to a slight discoloration on the wall. "Does that look to you like maybe an attempt like breaking through the wall?"

Ziva squinted. Her eyesight was good, but at this angle and in the poor light, it was hard to tell. "I shall find out," she said, and got in position to drop down, street side.

"Are you insane?! You get seen; you'll be killed!!"

She tried to shake off the death grip Tony had on her arm. "The attackers are about a block away, and busy attacking. I will be quiet; they will not notice me."

"And how will you get back inside the wall?! For the love of Pete, Ziva—"

She smiled wryly. "Your concern is touching, Tony, but misplaced. I am sure I can get back in at the Marines gate, if need be. But let me see…"

Before he could respond, she was out of his grasp and had dropped lightly to the grass next to the wall. The attackers down the street in the gloom appeared to not have noticed her.

She peered at the darkened part of the wall, and looked puzzled. Cautiously, she reached out and touched the wall gingerly, then more firmly, and more firmly yet again.

Ziva gestured to him, and he couldn't at first make out what it was she meant. _Other side?_ He turned his attention toward the Yard side of the wall, and then heard scrabbling. Tony climbed down the Yard side, and was astonished to see Ziva _coming through_ the wall, brick by brick. She pushed each brick out of the way, and they easily moved. When the bare minimum had been moved to allow her to pull her slender frame through, she did that, and then brushed dust off her clothes.

"Who made that hole in the wall?" Tony was so flabbergasted that he couldn't stand still. He moved between Ziva and the wall's hole and back again, over and over.

"Stop that, and help me put the bricks back," she scolded. "Unless there was some maintenance being done that no one told us about, then some enemy has likely done this. Who else could it be?"

"Cut lines," Tony moaned, finding them in the wall along the mortar. "They cut here—about a seven-foot by six-foot opening. Undid most of the mortar in the cut section's bricks, whatever the term for that is, and put them back in place. Ohhhhh, man. We gotta problem."

Ziva put the last brick into place. "We must tell someone. This wall must be repaired immediately."

"Right. Why don't you go find Gibbs or whoever's in field charge right now? We're about halfway to the Marines, so I think I better alert them."

"That is a good plan. I will see you back at NCIS."

- - - - -

Gibbs and a small crew inspected the wall breach with Ziva. "When could this have happened?!" demanded Conklin. "In full view of M Street?? How is this possible??"

Of mixed minds, Gibbs was both dismayed at the possible-double-agent's presence (self-invited), and yet curious to know what his reaction would be. "How do graffiti 'taggers' avoid notice? They just do. Our first step is to seal up this passage. Once that's done, we can worry about who did it and how." He sent one of the group back to NCIS to return with more muscles and something heavy to block the wall.

He did smile, about fifteen minutes later, to see a group of agents wheeling an old cannon liberated from the naval artifacts in Willard Park and rolling it up the slight slope to the wall. Yes, the weight of that would keep intruders out for awhile. And a cannon—he liked the war symbolism.

- - - - -

Tony caught up with Major Stallings, who seemed to be doing well in command. He begged a few more minutes of his friend's time, and quickly outlined the situation at the gate. Vic turned pale, and motioned Tony into a corner.

"The ramifications of this are _incredible_!" Vic said. "They've breached our perimeter…"

"They could come through that hole at any time. Leave the Hull gate, leave the O Street gate, and just pour on in there."

"That," said Vic slowly, "or it may be that they're already in here."

Tony had guessed that, too. Gibbs' words came back to him, and he wasn't about to let anyone other than Gibbs in on his suspicions. "Well, that kind of reasoning is why you're the high-ranking Marine guy, and I'm just an LE schlub," he said easily.

He thought he'd better change the subject. "Hey, I noticed there are some cars and a pickup truck or two parked across M Street. Do those belong to your people?"

"Nope. Once we went to Red Alert last week, our troops were forbidden to park this close to the Yard, outside. We didn't want to give anyone hiding spaces. We've no jurisdiction over private citizens, though."

"I wonder who really owns those vehicles? I would've thought that residents would have come to remove them once the police started enforcing the buffer zone. Hmmm."

"You think the vehicles belong to the attackers?"

"Maybe. I wonder how good their security system is?" Tony picked up a small rock and, with Vic, strode to the gate. There, as the guards stepped aside, he pitched the rock at a car across the street. It hit the driver's door with a _clang_…

…but instead of the _whoop-whoop-whoop_ of a car alarm system, the vehicle exploded, a sedan-sized chamber of fire.

"Now _that_," said Tony, "is what I call a booby trap!"


	10. December 25, noontime

_**Chapter 10: December 25,**__** noontime**_

The many oars of the dozen MK7 lifeboats from the Anacostia base, plus the Barry's old-fashioned boat, cut the river water with firm, measured slaps. In the fog, the distant shore appeared cold and quiet. _Slap, slap…_ Tim half-reclined in his boat, unable to get comfortable, and still a little nauseous despite the seasickness medicine the doctor had given him. _I left the Yard hours ago…what's happened in that time? Please, God; I hope no one else has been hurt, or…_ He felt guilty for having left the Yard; for not having stayed to help, even at great personal risk.

Like many in situations of separation, his thoughts turned to his last meetings with his friends; to things left unsaid. If those had indeed been the last words he would have had with them…had the words been enough? Or would it matter, anyway, if the Guard didn't arrive in time, and they all died? _War really is hell,_ he thought, and swallowed. He thought about telling himself that he was a fortunate guy, to have lived through so little warfare on his own soil, when in other countries war was recent history or even a fact of daily life…but he couldn't. Right now he found it hard to believe that he was fortunate in anything, other than just being alive.

He was pulled from his thoughts by cheers from the lead boats that caught on with the other boats: The _Barry_ had not sunk! It really was not special, as destroyer ships from the 1950s went, but it had been moored for so long at the Navy Yard that it was like part of the family. As a symbol, perhaps, of the battle—well, if the _Barry_ could take a beating and still be standing, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

_Slap, slap…_ The lead boats were now slowing, cautious, eyes trained on the shore. The little fleet was at great risk of being fired upon if the enemy had seized the Yard; or even subject to being shot at by their own side in exuberant error.

Tim's boat, the _Barry_ lifeboat, also carried the mission commander, a lieutenant. An ensign in the boat trained binoculars on the river bank, slowly seeping back and forth; back and forth. He stiffened. "Sir, the Isaac Hull gate is showing, I think, rifle fire. The enemy must not have gotten through yet."

"Score one for us," Lieutenant Casey Townsend said wryly. "Petty Officer Dingle, prepare to dock."

"Aye aye, Sir," responded the petty officer in the lead boat. His rowers smoothly brought their lifeboat toward one of the docks.

_"Hold it right there!"_ Out of the fog, two men and a woman, all in Marines camo, suddenly appeared on the dock, rifles leveled.

"We're from the Anacostia naval base," called the lieutenant. "We're here to help!"

"Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't," said the woman Marine. "Can you prove it?"

The ensign in Tim's boat grinned. "Helen, don't you remember when you got a flat tire in the Yard, and I drove you home back to Norfolk, in my car with no air-conditioning, in the middle of July?"

She lowered her rifle and dimpled. "Danny? Danny Brown?!...Chief, they're legit!"

The chief warrant officer and the other Marine lowered their rifles, too. "In that case, welcome, men! We can certainly use you. Good grief; how many of you are there?!"

The other boats made way for the lieutenant's boat to dock first. He leaped out, shook the chief's hand, and introduced himself. "We have twelve men plus gear in each of twelve boats, and ten in this older boat; all eager to be of service. I'm sending these boats back to Anacostia to pick up more men. Meanwhile, we've sent a runner over to Bolling, next door, to see if the airmen at the air base want to get in on the fun."

"Wow. Wow," said the chief, shaking his head. "We just might win this one, after all."

- - - - -

Abby pulled Tony's borrowed sweater tighter around her as she worked in the storeroom. Her tasks didn't have her moving around enough to keep warm in the now-chilly NCIS building. What had started as a pleasant way of both keeping busy and being useful was becoming less satisfying. _What am I doing here? Why didn't I leave days ago, like the Director said I could do? Everything's falling apart. I've counted the remaining unused candles, like the Director asked – 39. That's it, and then we go completely dark. I don't think I like the dark so much anymore._

She'd overheard snatches of conversation in her rounds. People were worried; strong people who could handle firearms expertly. The enemy had more powerful weapons. The gates were weakening; at least, the Hull gate was. Sooner or later they would break through. All communications were still down, and no one had any idea where the National Guard was, or if they'd arrive in time now. The horrid, horrid whiteboard in the squad room that bore the names of the wounded and the dead…she couldn't walk by it without whimpering. The tally now stood at eleven NCIS personnel wounded; seven dead. Paul Koski, listed as wounded little more than an hour ago, had died suddenly; his was the newest death name below Tim's. _All these people, dead at Christmas…_

_Tim…_ Abby didn't want to cry. She didn't want to feel. If she didn't feel, maybe it hadn't happened at all. The act of feeling something hurt; hurt badly. _How dare they take away such a good man as Tim?!_ At the thought of the word _good_, the tears came again. She'd been afraid of crying now; afraid that in the cold building the tears would freeze on her face. Instead they felt hot and salty and good, so she let them flow. Maybe the flow would wash out the pain.

Jenny saw the last bit of this, and hesitated before entering the storeroom. "Abby, I—"

"Oh! Director!" Abby struggled to wipe away the tears. She wasn't ready to talk about her feelings; not yet. Right now, the hurt had taken up residence inside her, and she was reluctant to let it out, letting out any of her memories of Tim. What if they took flight and never came back? "I, uh…I've found 39 unused votive candles. I counted them three times. Why did we have so many candles in the first place? There must have been hundreds to begin with!"

Jenny smiled slightly. "Before MTAC took up so much room here, back when it was ATAC, we used to have space for entertaining." She was glad to see Abby perk up a little at that. "Oh, yes. We had formal or semi-formal events here a couple times a year. Seating for a hundred or so. Usually this was to honor visiting dignitaries or such, but also for things like in-house awards. And we sometimes leased space to the Navy or the Marines for their entertaining."

"So…?"

"There was the idea that a votive candle on each of the tables looked classy. So candles were bought over the years. Many, many candles; all colors, depending on the decorating theme for each event. When MTAC was established in '02, the 'ballroom' vanished, and the remaining candles wound up in storage…Now we'll have to come up with a new alternative light source for our next power failure," she said wryly.

"Director, when these last candles are used up…"

"That won't be for awhile. We're in daylight now; we can start rationing candles. Let's extinguish half of all the ones on tables now."

"I'll get right on that, Director." Abby swiftly left the room.

Jenny lingered in the storeroom. She'd been prepared to tell Abby to take more downtime, to deal with her grief, but maybe having her stay busy was the better idea.

- - - - -

Word spread quickly through the building. _The Navy has landed!_ In just those terms it came, comical as it might seem. From the Anacostia base, over a hundred fresh Navy men, ready to fight. Within an hour, that number would be doubled, they said. All special agents fit for action had by now seen a couple of shifts at one of the gates. All were now pulled back, letting the Navy take over.

This made things no less busy at NCIS. Returning agents strolled in, some laughing for the first time in hours, looking for food, for water, for a chair. Some peeled off for sleep, as despite the arrival of the fresh forces, there was no guarantee that NCIS wouldn't be needed again soon. To Abby's consternation, some picked up freshly-extinguished candles and relit them, just because they were unlit. She followed them, as best she could, from room to room, snuffing out those candles. Of course, others quickly relit them.

Gibbs saw this and grinned even as he was pulled aside to sign off on something. Then a Marine guard came up to him. "Agent Gibbs, sir. There's a man at the front entrance who says he works here but he has no ID at all on him. I find it suspicious, sir. He says you can vouch for him. Do you want us to put him in holding until you get a chance to—"

"What's his name?"

"Uh…I forget, sir. Sorry, sir."

"That's all right, Corporal. I'll be down there directly." _Who could it possibly be? As far as I know, everyone's accounted for. Probably one of the CRFO agents, but how could he have lost his ID?_

After signing and sending the papers to be scanned and filed, Gibbs took the stairs down to the front entrance. His right hand automatically went near his holster. In these times, trouble could be inches away.

The front entrance was dimly lit by the pale daylight coming in the front doors and three candles. The two Marine guards on loan were there, as were a couple of men he assumed were part of the Navy fleet, and someone in Navy sweats and a trench coat, leaning on a cane—

"Hi, boss; I um, lost all my IDs, my wallet, and, um, it's a long story—"

Gibbs stared, taking it all in, just a few seconds before rushing forward and taking him in a bear hug, startling the other men. "Dang it, Tim; we thought you were _dead!_" The tone of his voice carried more joyous expression than his words did.

"No, not yet," Tim laughed, his voice hoarse. "I was on the _Barry_ when it blew. I'm okay, boss, but Faith—" he choked.

"We know, Tim. Her body was recovered. And we heard from Petty Officer Levitz that you had been on board. But you're sweating, and it looks like you have a leg injury. Let's get you to see Ducky. Can you climb stairs?"

Tim eyed the stairs. Yes, he could do it, though it would be slow and it would hurt. "I guess so, boss, but I've already seen the base doctor at Anacostia, and—"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "While Ducky's examining you, that will give you plenty of time to tell us your long story. I trust it will be good."

"Well, uh—" Tim looked distressed. _How will Gibbs take it? Will he let me have it for leaving the building, and then the Yard?_

But Gibbs only clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, McGee. I'm just glad to have you back among the living. Sailor, help me help him up the stairs."

- - - - -

Slowly Gibbs and Tim moved through the squad room, Gibbs matching Tim's limited pace. Around them shouts arose as people recognized Tim and surged toward him. _Was this a Christmas miracle?_ Gibbs fought them off; Tim was having enough trouble walking. Someone then, inspired, pushed a rolling desk chair at them and bade Tim to sit, proud to be Tim's chauffer for the remaining distance to Tim's desk.

Tim put his head down on his desk; relief flooding him. _I'm home._ He was tired beyond belief, now that he finally had the opportunity to allow himself to feel tired. And he hurt. He felt in his pocket for the pills Doctor Sykora had given him. _Better not take any more until Ducky sees me; see what he says._

"Get Ducky up here," Gibbs said to an agent. "Find the Director; let her know about McGee," he said to another.

"Someone said—" That was Tony, coming down the stairs from the third floor. "Said—It's _true!_ _PROBIE__!!!"_ He launched himself at Tim, laughing and crying both. "How the hell—"

_"McGee!!!"_ Ziva hurdled a desk to get to him. She was not a hugger by nature, but in this case she couldn't resist getting in from behind, since Tony clung to him at the front. Hers was a very brief hug, but Tim noticed it, and appreciated the gesture.

Ducky came at a run. "Dear me, Timothy. I am _ever_ so glad to see you; injured is _so_ much better than dead."

"I can't argue with that, Ducky," Tim said.

"Someone should tell—I'll go find her," said Tony, and ran off, without waiting for permission. But he stopped at the whiteboard on the way, drew a line through Tim's name on the death list, and added the name to the injured list, with a long arrow going from the former to the latter. _Found alive!!!_he added above the arrow, flanking the words with stars.

- - - - -

Tony found Abby in a conference room, snuffing out the room's two candles. "Come with me," he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out the door.

"Tony, what—"

"Oh, save your voice," he said, grinning. "You're going to be yelling yourself hoarse in a minute."

- - - - -

Abby's scream in the squad room threatened to shatter the windows. "Too tight; too tight, Abby!" Ducky said. "He can't breathe!"

She did let Tim go, then; but took his hands, and couldn't take her eyes away from his face: that tired, dirty, scratched, beautiful face. She prayed her thanks that she'd been given a chance to see it again.

"Abigail, do let me in to see him," Ducky grumbled, even as Jenny came up and got in on the hugging act. He threw up his hands and allowed Jenny her moment.

"All right, now off with your sweat pants, Timothy. I need to check your wound," Ducky said, giving Jenny and Abby gentle shoves to the side.

"Here? In public??" Tim panicked.

"Oh, don't be so modest, Timothy. You're welcome to keep your boxers or briefs on. It's either that or you have to climb down the stairs to Autopsy."

Still blushing furiously, Tim pulled off the Navy sweat pants. _This sort of thing is more frightening than facing a truckload of enemy attackers,_ he thought.

- - - - -

Tim related the story of how he and Faith had gone to the _Barry_, of the explosion, his finding of the lifeboat, his chance trip to Anacostia.

"And so you brought back the Navy. Good work, Probie!" Tony gave him an affectionate cuff on the ear.

"They volunteered. Who was I to say no?" Tim said with a tired smile. Then he thought of something. "Oh, boss! Director!" He nearly jumped up.

"Be still, Timothy!" Ducky said sharply, jostling Gibbs holding the flashlight as he did so. "I can't treat your wound if you're moving about."

"Sorry, Ducky. Has anyone checked the Navy Museum?"

"The…Navy Museum, Tim?" Jenny asked, gently, in the ensuing silence. It seemed, after all, like a strange non sequitur.

"I thought I'd made that clear. Maybe not. The reason Faith and I slipped out was because we had a hunch that attackers were already inside the Yard. She was in favor of checking the _Barry_ first. I thought the Navy Museum would be a more likely hiding spot. We followed her plan—"

"And neither would have been looked at since at least Friday," said Ziva.

"Let's roll!" said Gibbs, looking around for a couple more for this ad-hoc team. "Good work, McGee. But don't leave the building again without authorization, got it?"

"Got it," said Tim, wincing as Ducky gave him a shot.

- - - - -

"It's times like this," Tony said as the small group crept up on the Navy Museum, right next door to NCIS, "that I think we should have a key to every building in the Yard. "You know, so we could take in their mail and water their plants when they're on vacation; roust out squatting terrorists…"

Gibbs only grunted. "Norris, Jones, watch the rear exit. The rest of you, we're going in the front. Everyone, I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful."

They knew what he meant. There were no lights of any type visible in the museum. They could be walking into the worst possible situation.


	11. December 25, early afternoon

_**Chapter 11: December 25, early afternoon**_

The mists of a bleak Christmas day behind them, Gibbs and his group hesitated beside (not in front of) the glass doors to the Navy Museum. All inside appeared black, as one would expect in the power outage…but could attackers be lurking just out of sight? Ziva, the most nimble-fingered of the group, pulled out her lock pick tools, determined to do the job silently. Then she stopped and reached to push the door open.

Gibbs' hand caught her wrist, and their eyes met. _If they're inside, would they have the door locked?_ Maybe; maybe not. The urge to just try to turn pushing on the door bordered on overwhelming. Gibbs let go of Ziva's wrist, and she knew he was leaving the decision up to her. _No. I will not __push__. That could give us away._ Instead, she picked the lock—it _was_ locked—and then took a step back.

There were five of them in the front door party: Gibbs, Ziva and Tony, of course; and agents Keith Blackstone of HQ and Lucy Kim of the CRFO. Gibbs signaled to Tony and Ziva, and on Gibb's finger count of three, they burst through the door, guns leveled. Kim and Blackstone followed suit as the other three made room for them, and all dived right or left, to get away from the daylight coming in through the door glass.

Freezing in place, the agents waited for their eyes to adjust to the very dim light from the tinted doors and skylights. It was a throat-catching couple of minutes: if invaders were indeed in here, the invaders would see them long before the agents could see the invaders. _Five…six...__please, oh please…nine…ten…come __**on**__, eyes…thirteen…fourteen…_ A creak sounded somewhere. To the left? It could be just the old building muttering to itself. _Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…go!_ They could now see each other, dimly, and scattered, creeping without a sound. In the darkness, the museum exhibits were a jumble of large black objects; impassive objects that could be hiding attackers.

Step after silent step, and no sign so far. Suspense hung thickly in the air. A third of the way through the museum, and nothing. _Step, step_… Halfway through, almost…_step…_

Kim shrieked, once, briefly, as she was grabbed from behind. The agents pounded to her location, but the attacker had released her and fled. She wheezed, feeling her throat, feeling still the pressure of the blade that had been held against it. But they had their answer. They were not alone.

Still, if the attacker had fled, that indicated that _he_ was alone, or at least part of only a small group. That might make things easier, if true. _Step, step…_

And then Gibbs hit the tripwire.

There was a crash and a roar as objects flew out in all directions, and something heavy from above shattered into masonry and concrete bits and fell. Dust rose in a huge cloud.

"Boss! _Boss!" _Tony cried out. Keeping silent didn't matter now; they'd been found out. _Not under the rubble! Please!_ But the reasoning was inescapable, as the agents gathered. Gibbs and Kim were missing, and probably under there.

Tony and Blackstone dug frantically, while Ziva kept a moving guard, on the lookout. The attackers could still strike. "Boss!" "Lucy!" "Answer me!!" Finally a hand was found, and Lucy was uncovered. She sat up, coughing, and holding her chest. "Cracked a rib, I think," she said, "but otherwise I'm okay."

It was another few minutes before they found Gibbs, unconscious, but breathing; a gash on his forehead. He came to after a minute, and sat up with a groan.

"All parts in order, boss?" asked Tony. "You're wincing."

"Busted my wrist, it feels like," Gibbs said with a grimace. "At least it's the left one. Give me a hand up, will you?"

But they ducked down when rifle fire cracked the air. "They are fleeing out the back!" Ziva exclaimed. They set off in jagged pursuit, hiding behind display objects every few steps.

_I wish I had a working cell phone, to warn __Norris and Jones at the rear._ In pain, Gibbs let Ziva take the lead. Now the attackers could be seen against the daylight coming in the rear doors. Just two of them, but neither could be allowed to escape. The agents got off their own shots, and one of the attackers staggered and fell.

_Faster, faster…_ The remaining attacker reached the back door, and swore at finding it locked. Norris and Jones came out from the sidelines and peered in. Enraged, the attacker shot through the glass.

_"NO!!"_ Kim shrieked, and jumped on the attacker. He fought her, clubbing her with his rifle butt. It was pandemonium as the others tried to separate them, and Kim struggled with him despite the repeated blows. Blackstone, finally getting a clear angle, shot him, and all was then quiet.

The carnage was appalling for such a short round. The two attackers—dead. Kim convulsed a few times, and then died in Blackstone's arms from the head blows. He wept over this very capable young woman he'd met only days before. They could see Jones and Norris lying just outside the door. Tony threw a heavy trash barrel through the locked back doors in desperation to get to them, but it was too late…they, too, were dead.

It would _always_ be too much to bear. Always. But still, they had to go on. The living owed the dead that much.

Retrieving the bodies would have to wait. Gibbs needed medical attention, and word had to be gotten to TPTB about the two attackers. _Where is the rest of the invas__ion force?_ Tony steered Gibbs back to the NCIS building while Ziva and Blackstone ran ahead with the news.

- - - - -

Gibbs insisted that Ducky treat him in MTAC. There was so much still to do, and they couldn't afford to sideline another leader. The squad room would have been Gibbs' first choice, but it was too chaotic and crowded. He needed to be able to think and plan. Ducky splinted Gibbs' wrist, and put his arm in a sling, tut-tutting as he did so. He didn't advise his old friend to take any downtime, silently agreeing that the mission needed him. After giving Gibbs some pills for the pain, Ducky departed.

Present at this meeting were Jenny, Zelig and Conklin; Alan Becker, head of the CRFO unit; Lt. Casey Townsend for the Anacostia naval group; and, at Gibbs' request, Ziva and Tony.

"I obviously can't do all of what I was doing before," said Gibbs, getting in words before the meeting formally started. "So I'm making battlefield promotions. Ziva has the combat experience; she'll lead Team A." He saw her nod, not looking too surprised. "Tony will be my assistant; my legs, if need be." Tony too nodded, and Gibbs hoped he understood the need to watch Zelig and Conklin even more. They'd talk later, in private.

"Two terrorists dead. That's something, anyway," said Jenny. She probably shouldn't have started the meeting that way; it sounded insensitive on a couple different levels. Becker was quick to respond.

"And NCIS lost _three_ people at the museum, Director! I'd hardly call that a victory!"

"I'm sorry. I'm not intending to slight Norris, Jones and Kim. Far from it. But we may be able to learn something about the enemy now. Charles?"

Zelig cleared his throat. "The attackers' bodies have just been brought in. I've pulled two people off the housekeeping duties to see what they can figure out about them. Yes, we don't have working computers, but until mid 2005 we were still keeping thorough paper records of terrorist groups. There might be something about their clothing or things they were carrying…"

"Bloody Arabic bunch, most likely," Becker snarled.

"I can do without the slurs, Alan," said Jenny sharply. "Charles, keep me posted. Casey, your men are preparing to do a thorough search of the yard?"

"Well, as thorough as we can, Director, given our size," said the lieutenant. "The third group of Navy and Air Force men should be arriving shortly, and that'll be it. That takes a lot out of our base, and the word I've received is that Bolling can't spare any more airmen than that. They have to keep enough to defend their site."

"Of course."

"So we're looking at 40 men now to search. They'll go through every building in the Yard; breaking in where they have to. The attackers are somewhere. We'll find 'em, but it may take some time. We may be into a second or third shift, before we do."

"I'd rather see it done right than fast," Jenny agreed. "Alan, I know I had you in charge of defense of this building, but given Jethro's new limitations, I'd rather put him in that slot. So I'd like to have you head up our offensive teams." Becker could be annoying at times, but he was also very competent.

"You got it."

"Good. So our main questions are: Where are the invaders? What have they been up to? Have they laid mines, hidden bombs, put up other booby traps? Are they preparing to invade the inhabited buildings…which as far as I can tell are just this one, the Navy admin building and its barracks, and the Marines barracks…?"

"Are they also hiding out in private property along M Street?" asked Becker.

"That's out of our scope," said Jenny. "We're not going out of the Yard."

"Why not, Director? If we can cut off the head now, it'll save us so much."

"It's suicidal, "Gibbs put in. "We have a whiteboard down in the squad room that shows ten dead. A mission like you describe would only add to it. Greatly."

Becker stood, his face purple. "Yes, it's risky, but guess what? This is _war!!"_

"And my NCIS people are civilian employees; not military!" Jenny raged. "We can't play God with their lives. Having them do battle at the gates has already stretched what we should be asking them to do."

"These are extraordinary times," Gibbs said quietly. "This is nothing like what NCIS ever expected to have happen. But there _is_ a line that has to be drawn. Full-out, offensive combat outside the Yard is beyond that line. Thank God I'm not high enough up of the pecking order so that I'd have to defend those actions to a Congressional sub-committee." He smiled lightly at Jenny.

"You'll be dead by then!" said Becker. "When the gates fall—"

"They're not going to fall!" Townsend said, looking ready to go for Becker's throat.

Becker ignored him. "When the gates fall, and the attackers storm this building, _all_ our people will be in trouble then…including the non-combatants, like Ducky, Abby Sciuto, and the Intel bunch. And all our wounded. Will _that_ be on your conscience, Director? What's a few more—"

_"ENOUGH!!"_ Jenny bellowed. "You are out of line, Alan. Go think about that. This meeting is over. Jethro, Ziva, Tony, please stay." When the others had left and the door was closed, Jenny let out her frustrations with a big sigh. "I swear; on his best days that man is more aggravating that you are on your worst days, Jethro."

"Thank you, I think."

"I can't be everywhere. You three, keep an eye on him. If he looks like he's about to mount this foolish offensive, notify me immediately. If necessary, I'll relieve him of command and put him in holding. For his safety and ours."

Tony nodded along with the others. _That's three people I have to keep an eye on,_ he thought. _I don't have that many eyes._ "Director, do we have a squad looking specifically for booby traps in the Yard?"

"Not specifically, but that's a good idea."

"I can do that," Ziva volunteered.

"Team A might be called up soon," Gibbs cautioned.

"Probably not before dark, at the earliest. I'll only need one or two people. As long as we have daylight, we should be able to finish in two hours."

"I'll go with you," Gibbs said. Over protests, he added, "I need to stay physically active. My legs are fine, and I know what to look for, unlike those E-2s out there."

"All right," Jenny said, reluctantly. "Tony?"

"A building security assessment, top to bottom. To see the holes where the squirrels, or other pests, can get in." _And I'll be watching Conklin and Zelig like a hawk._

"Fine. All right, people; let's get to it."

- - - - -

In the break room near the squad room, Abby sat in a chair beside Tim's cot. None of the other five "tenants" were in the room at this time. She checked the cloth on his forehead. Warm already. She sighed, and applied another, first drowning it in the contents of half a bottle of water; wishing it was cool water.

"Dang, I wish I could be useful, instead of just lying here," Tim groused.

"Maybe later," Abby said. "Ducky said you have to rest for awhile." Not entirely true; Ducky hadn't said anything about Tim moving off the cot. But Tim didn't need to know that.

"There must be something I can do…I have a brain, and right now it's atrophying!"

"Well, there's probably nothing wrong with you doing a little thinking…"

"For that, I'd need to know what's going on. Can you find out, Abby, and tell me? Please?"

"Wouldn't you rather I stayed with you, and kept you company?" She smiled, not at all flirtatious. Right now what he needed was a friend.

"I'd like to have you do both," he admitted. "But if everyone else is doing their job, I want to do mine. So, go, please. And come back soon."

"I will." She planted a soft kiss on his hot cheek, and went out.

- - - - -

"Ducky, he needs to get active again! You know Tim." Abby crossed her arms on her chest.

"He's in no shape to be active, Abby," Ducky sighed. "Until that infection is under control—which may not be until he can get into a working hospital—I can't authorize any work for him."

"And that's your final word?"

"Yes. Now you were asking about what's going on? Jethro's broken his wrist, for one thing—"

Her eyes grew huge. "Gibbs! My poor, wounded Gibbs! Where is he???"

"Up in MTAC, last I knew, but Abby—" But she was already out the door. He shook his head, and went to make the rounds of his injured people.

- - - - -

When he came to Tim in the break room, Ducky shook his head before approaching him from the back. "Hello, Timothy. Abigail tells me you're eager to do some work."

"Everyone else is doing their share, Ducky—"

"And you think you haven't? Dear boy, you brought the Navy back! In sheer numbers alone, that may win this for us. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment!"

Tim smiled cynically. "Are you familiar with the expression, 'So, what have you done for us lately'? That's me."

"It shouldn't be. You're wounded. Your job now is to heal yourself. Nothing more." He saw Tim sigh and turn his head away. "And you can't accept that, because you are Timothy, and you always ask more of yourself than anyone should. Let me think on it, Timothy, and maybe I can come up with something that isn't too taxing for you."

"Can I see Gibbs?" Tim asked. "He'll think of something."

Ducky refrained from saying _He'll agree with me_. "Not possible at the moment, I'm afraid. Gibbs is, uh indisposed."

Tim picked up on the change in Ducky's face and the fact that he'd turned away. "Gibbs is _wounded??_ How—how bad??"

"Nothing to get alarmed about; a fractured wrist."

"But how did that happen?? Was it at the Hull gate?"

"You really must calm down, Timothy. You're working yourself into a state. Now lie back down or I shall force a sedative on you."

Tim closed his eyes and fought tears. "Please, won't someone tell me what's going on? Please?" he whimpered.

Ducky felt his forehead. Tim was still feverish. "I—I'm not well-versed on the matter. I'll see if I can find someone to come talk to you."

"Thanks, Ducky. That would mean a lot." Then, for the first time in hours, Tim fell asleep. Ducky patted his arm, then walked out, looking grim.


	12. December 25, mid afternoon

_**Chapter 12: December 25, **__**mid afternoon**_

Ducky stopped to check on an agent with fingers hurt in a grenade blast. "That's it, dear Monique. Don't move them if you can help it. I'll be back to see you before the painkillers wear off. Ah, Charles," he added, seeing the head of Intel stopping by to see one of his injured crew in the makeshift ward on the third floor. "Could I see you outside for a moment?"

Zelig nodded, and they stepped out into the hallway. "Something amiss, Ducky?"

"I don't think so, but I was hoping you could help me out. Young Timothy McGee has asked me what the current state of affairs is; it distresses him greatly not to know. I haven't been able to keep up myself, but I'm sure you have, and I was wondering—"

"Could I go talk to him? Sure, Ducky. I'd be glad to." Zelig smiled and his dark eyes twinkled.

- - - - -

"Hi, Tim. How're you doing?"

"Charles! Nice of you to drop by!" Tim roused himself to sit up a bit.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you earlier. I can't tell you how glad I was to hear that you'd turned up alive…"

Tim bowed his head and fought the tears. "Faith didn't make it. I know she didn't; I—I saw her—" He broke off, choking on the tears.

Zelig placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll all miss her. She died a hero, trying to flush out the invaders."

"Yeah…" A horde of painful, conflicting emotions arose in him. _Why did she die, instead of me? Why didn't we tell management where we were going? Why didn't we wait? How much of this was my fault?_

"Ducky said you wanted an update on our situation," Zelig said kindly. "We have ten dead; sixteen wounded. Those are all NCIS personnel; I don't have figures on the Marines and the Navy. I think Conklin does."

Tim waved this aside, feeling his chest heavy with all the hurt. He wondered why he had really wanted to know. If knowledge was so necessary, why did it feel so damaging? "Who's died since—since Faith?"

"Paul Koski, of MTAC—he was ex-Marine, well, as they say, there's no such thing, and he insisted on going out with Team C—"

"Oh, God," Tim moaned. He'd known Koski; been an usher at his wedding. He had a 3-month-old son, and a cute little step-daughter.

"He was wounded at the gate in a grenade attack. We thought he had a chance, but—maybe it was better for him to go quickly. There's a limit to what Ducky and his people can do here without electrical power."

"Who else?" Tim whispered, dreading the news.

"Andy Yelks of the CFRO. Died of gunshot wounds at the O gate. Then in the raid at the Navy Museum…the enemy was lying in wait…"

"How many?"

"We lost three there. "Lucy Kim of the CFRO. She was very brave; threw herself at an attacker in an attempt to save…"

"Oh, no…" Tim had met the bubbly young woman, and remembered regretting that she was engaged.

"…to save Joey Jones of the CFRO and our own Bill Norris. The enemy shot them. The, uh…the Navy Museum is where Gibbs got his broken wrist. Hit a trip wire and was caught up in a booby trap. Not fatal, luckily."

Tim was shaking. _Why did I ever open my mouth about this? If I'd kept quiet, three people would still be alive, and Gibbs wouldn't have gotten hurt._ "Do you—do you know if there are any more blankets?" he asked Zelig. "I feel so cold."

"I'll see if I can find one. Did you want to know anything more, Tim? How we're doing, strength and supplies-wise? I can tell you all of that."

"Not just now, thanks…" Tim laid down and closed his eyes. He could have sworn he, a shy person by nature, would be more concerned about the less-emotional stats like troop strength and supplies. But he wasn't. Now it was the people who counted, and he'd already been given all the bad news he could bear. He would see the faces of the five recent dead in his sleep. "Is—is Gibbs around?" _He's always been a pillar…_

For once, Zelig looked a little surprised. "I haven't seen him for a few hours. I assume he's resting somewhere. Would you like me to have him come see you, when I do find him?"

Tim thought. "No. No, don't bother him. I was just—"

"How about this: I'll tell him that you sent him best wishes?"

He would have laughed, in other times. Gibbs could never be wrapped up in greeting card sentiment. "Yeah, that would be fine. Thanks."

"I'll send someone down with a blanket. Take care of yourself, Tim."

"Charles—"

"Yes, Tim?" Zelig turned back at the door.

"You're a good man. Thanks."

Zelig smiled and waved, and left.

Tim's final moment of cheer faded as the dead once more filed into his mind.

- - - - -

Ducky thought about getting some rest, then decided NCIS couldn't afford this yet. This didn't stop him from sending his nurse off, however. Palmer was more than two decades younger than her, and could stand to stay on his feet a little longer. _I am tired; so tired…no, must not think of that. I am needed._

"Hey, Ducky; we meet again!" Charles had just rounded a corner, startling Ducky out of his thoughts.

"Yes; good to see you, Charles," Ducky said with a tired smile. He admired the brilliance of the Intel head, but had never warmed to him as a friend. Something in the two of them was different and kept them apart. Didn't mean there was anything bad about Zelig; they just were steered in different ways. "Have you had the chance to talk to Timothy?"

"Yes; I just left him a little while ago. I was glad to see him. We talked."

"How was his mood, would you say?"

Zelig shrugged. "Okay, considering. I thought he took it pretty well."

"Good. Good. Well, thank you, Charles. It's much appreciated."

Zelig smiled, an unreadable smile. "My pleasure. Oh, Ducky, he asked about Gibbs."

"Did he?" Ducky asked carefully.

"Yes, I think he was concerned about his wrist injury."

"It's minor. There's no cause for alarm."

"But in Tim's eyes, his mentor, his father-figure has taken a tumble. Naturally, this has shaken his world."

Ducky looked at him shrewdly. "You've had psychology studies? I'd thought you'd majored in the classics."

"I did. I just have an armchair interest in psychology. What I know comes from _Reader's Digest_."

"How droll. Well, thanks for the…reader's analysis."

Zelig grinned. "An insufferable hobby of mine. To try to appear that I know more than I do. So, where is Gibbs?"

"Resting, as I directed him to. No, no; don't ask me where; that information is on a need-to-know basis. Aren't you the same way?"

"Hmmm, yes; I remember Jenny saying something about it. Well, when you see him, tell him Tim says hi."

"I'll do that. Good day, Charles."

Ducky left, feeling strangely ill at ease. He went on to Jenny's office, and found Cynthia dozing on a cot in the outer office. Tiptoeing past her, he rapped softly on Jenny's inner office door and went in.

Jenny lifted her head from its nest in the crossed arms on her desk. "Oh, Ducky," she said drowsily. "I was just catching 40 winks, I'm sorry…"

"Don't apologize, Jennifer. You need more rest than that. I won't keep you; I was just wondering where Jethro was."

"He's resting, Ducky. You directed him to get rest, remember?" She yawned hugely.

"Yes, of course. Not that I ever expect him to take my medical advice. You're not going to tell me where he is?"

"Agreement of the top four. We have to be somewhat unreachable or we'll wear out." Even as she said that, however, she looked slightly to the right, to the door to a small conference room that was not often used.

Ducky took the hint. "That makes sense. When he…when you next see him, please tell him Tim was asking about him. Just concerned."

"I will." Jenny smiled and yawned again. Ducky left and let her get back to sleep.

- - - - -

"Are you sure that you want to be doing this, Gibbs?" Ziva watched her breath form a cloud in the cooling air as they stood in Willard Park, across the street from the NCIS building.

He smirked. "As opposed to being on a beach in Mexico? No. But this is where I am."

"I could get Tony—"

"Tony has enough work to do. The longer you mother-hen me, Ziva, the longer it will be before either of us get rest."

"Sorry, Gibbs. Where do you want to start?"

"How about this park? There's a psychological attachment to all these artifacts on display."

She shrugged. It was as good a place as any to start.

- - - - -

They carefully went over each object in the park; every cannon, bell and anchor; every bench and walkway. Nothing there that shouldn't be there. No trip wires, either.

The gloom settled around them like so many wandering spirits. They went from building to building, going around the perimeter of each. It was at the fifth building that they hit confirmation of their suspicions.

Ziva saw the trip wire first and cautioned Gibbs to halt. She knelt, studying it.

"I don't fully understand how these things work," Gibbs said. "Wouldn't the trigger mechanisms of the booby trap gone dead when the epulse hit?"

"It depends on what the mechanism is. If it is electronic, yes, it would not work. But, as you saw in the museum, some are simple mechanical; gears, levers, and pulleys."

"Can you tell which kind this is?"

"Yes. By setting it off." She went back several steps, and Gibbs did the same. She pulled out a knife, the hesitated. "No, I do not think I will risk a good knife." She put it back and reached for her gun. Taking careful aim, she neatly shot the wire, but nothing happened. "Hmmm." she said.

"What will happen when the power comes back on? Will the booby trap deploy?"

"I do not think so. The electrical connection will not be open because the line has been cut. Without the connection, the second act—the booby trap—will not perform."

"So we should still disarm any trip wires we find?"

"With great caution, yes."

"Okay…I think I see another one, at ten o'clock."

"I see it." Ziva got her gun out again, and fired. There was a large _whooom!_ with a fireball and a rush of stones and dust, and Ziva was blown off her feet.

Gibbs rushed to her. There were several small wounds on her face, and a larger gash at her temple. She was still breathing. He patted her hand softly, then harder, but she didn't come to.

Cursing his broken wrist, Gibbs ran back to NCIS, grabbing the first two people he saw. All in all, he was gone no more than five minutes.

When Gibbs and the two seamen arrived at the explosion site, there was no sign of the Mossad officer. Gibbs stood dumbfounded and shaken. Who had taken her, and where?


	13. December 25, late afternoon

_**Chapter 13: December 25, late afternoon**_

A search party was quickly formed of all the people who were otherwise unoccupied at the moment; about 30 in all. In the gloom the Navy Yard seemed larger than ever. _"Ziva!__ Ziva!"_ went the calls, to no answer.

Gibbs paused and looked at one section of the wall along M Street, where only hours before he'd led a group in moving a cannon into place. The cannon was to slow, or stop, the invaders from getting in though the hole they'd cut in the wall.

Someone had moved the cannon.

The wall bricks were in place, but sloppily, as if hastily reassembled. "Asher!" he called to the closest agent.

"Yeah, Gibbs?"

"Grab a couple of people, and raid the Yard supply shed. Mix up concrete and replaster those bricks."

"Uh, that's not the same as bricklaying mortar, and it'll look—"

"The last thing on my mind is a design award, Asher. Go do it!"

_Where was Ziva?_ The first and second places they'd checked had been the Marines base and the Navy office. They hadn't seen her.

Jenny had to clear her throat before he even noticed her. "Jen! You shouldn't be outside."

"So they say. But I'm not irreplaceable, and I _am_, seemingly, the only one who can order you to come inside and get some rest."

"But Ziva—I can't—"

"You can't do any more than the other people looking for her can do. I was livid, Jethro, when I heard that you were sashaying out here, just as I and everyone else thought you were resting."

"This _is_ how I rest."

"Not this time. Go lie down, inside, now."

He grinned. "You want to keep me company?"

"I have had my nap, and I'm going to do real work again. Now start walking, or I'll pull out my firearm."

- - - - -

"Here you go, Henry," Ducky said with a weary smile to the wounded agent lying on the gurney in Autopsy. The man's injuries weren't severe and had been seen to. All he needed now was a little something to mask the pain and help him sleep. "These pills will help. I'll get you a cup of water to wash them down."

"Uh, Doctor Mallard?"

"Just a moment, Mr. Palmer. As soon as I'm finished with Agent Moreland. Get him some water, would you?" Ducky felt tired, beyond tired, and really didn't need any interruptions just now.

"I, uh, really need to speak with you, Doctor Mallard. It's urgent."

"It can wait, whatever it is. Get the water, please."

"No, Doctor Mallard, it can't wait!" Jimmy Palmer clamped his strong hand over the doctor's right hand, and pulled him out into the hall, over Ducky's protests.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Ducky demanded. "You are out of line, Mr. Palmer!"

"Doctor, look at these." Palmer pulled open Ducky's hand.

In the flickering light of the candle that Jimmy held up, Ducky stared at the pills as if he'd never seen them before.

"Those aren't the painkillers, Doctor Mallard," Jimmy said in a quavering voice. "I know you were going for the hydrocodone, but I saw you grab the bottle next to it, instead. You didn't mean to do it, Doctor. You were just tired."

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I could have killed that man through my inattentiveness!" The pills fell from his hand and rolled away.

"I'll get the right pills, Doctor. Then you administer them, and then go get some sleep. You're way overdue."

"I know I am." Ducky took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "But I _can't_. A doctor is needed, and there's only one of me. Unless…" His blue eyes studied Jimmy's face.

"Oh, no, no, no, Doctor!"

"Mr. Palmer…"

"I'm not a doctor! I'm still in medical school! There are laws against practicing medicine without a license, even if I thought I knew what I was doing!"

"You know at least as much as a combat medic. And that's really most, if not all, you'd be doing. You know how to clean wounds, stitch or clamp them, splint broken bones—the usual trauma care."

"But this isn't a warzone."

"Isn't it? I dare say it is, under just about any definition I can think of."

"If I did something wrong—if I made a mistake—the Good Samaritan law wouldn't protect me." Jimmy looked stricken.

Ducky gave him a sad smile, and clapped a hand on his assistant's shoulder. "I'm not going to tell you what to do, Mr. Palmer. _You_ must make that decision. And…no one in their right mind will fault you for whatever you choose."

Jimmy stood for a long moment, his head bowed. If he made the right decisions, he could be a lot of help, he knew. A wrong decision would be disastrous. But if he did nothing at all, the only person who would be safe would be him. Was that the best thing?

"I'm going to get some solid sleep. If you really, really need me, come get me." Ducky blearily stumbled out.

- - - - -

Jenny was back up and running in her office; feeling more energetic now that she was convinced Gibbs really _was_ asleep in the next room. Dusk was falling, but she didn't draw the blinds just yet. Any little bit of daylight was still precious. She refused to allow more than one lit candle in her room.

"Director? I'm sorry to bother you…"

She squinted, but couldn't recognize the speaker in the dim light of the candle he carried. _Oh, how I miss Cynthia's help! I'll give her another two hours of sleep, then after that…_ "I'm sorry, are you, um, Agent Shea?"

"No, Director, I'm Will Mazek of the CRFO. I'm a similar height to Shea, though. I'm in command of the search since Agent Gibbs went off. We need to know, ma'am, how long you expect us to keep searching."

_Until you find Ziva,_ Jenny wanted to say. But that wasn't practical; not during a war. If Gibbs were awake, he wouldn't stop searching, because he just didn't. "Tell me about the search so far." She indicated a chair in front of her desk.

He sat. "We've covered the parks and the streets, the parking lots, the piers, and the areas leading up to the gates. Nothing. We've sent people back into the Navy Museum and searched there as well. I have two conclusions…"

"Yes?" She tried to keep her face impassive. Mazek looked too young to be commanding a search, and she didn't know if she could trust his judgment. What else could they do, though?

"Quite simply, first, she's fallen into the hands of the enemy. There can be no other reason as to why we haven't found her. Second, that means she's either been taken out of the Yard, or is being held in a building here somewhere."

There were no good answers. It would take far too many people to search the 40-some buildings that made up the Yard. She wanted so much to leave the decision in the hands of the mission commander, this young man. That was the way to build experience in the troops: to train them and then give them their heads. But sometimes, though, she had to go with her gut. Mazek, had he been experienced, wouldn't have come to her for an opinion.

"When it gets full dark, stop the search," Jenny said. He nodded, rose and left. She put her head in her hands, and silently said a prayer for Ziva.

- - - - -

"What's the word, Will?" one of the agents asked as Mazek returned to the search party.

"We stop at full dark," said Mazek. "That was what I wanted, and I convinced Shepard to see it my way."

"She wanted us to search all the buildings, I bet?"

"Yeah. What a waste of time that would have been. David must be out of the Yard by now, or else be dead and buried somewhere. We're not going to find her."

"So…why are we still searching? It'll be dark in less than half an hour."

"Eh, humor me, Carol. I have a job to do here, and I intend to do it."

- - - - -

There was a fence post down near the water's edge near the O Street gate; a fence post bolstered by an additional wrap of concrete to which a trash container had been attached. The trash container seemed like a nice idea in better times, when it was a sign of courtesy and respect for visitors who needed a place to drop that tissue or water bottle. Now, though, it could be a hiding place for a bomb.

Not that there was one there, now. Ziva had checked for one, before stepping on the trash container to scale the fence. Now she hid in the shadow of the post, her head aching and still bleeding a bit, but glad to be alive.

She had come to in the gloom, on the grass, and surmised immediately what had happened. What she couldn't figure out was what had happened to Gibbs. Had he gone for help? Been captured? Killed? That last thought made her shudder. Her instincts told her not to wait around. The river was nearby; much closer than NCIS was. She knew every centimeter of the Yard—invaders would be less likely to look for anyone at the riverside. There she could gather her strength and scope out the situation.

_Quiet…be quiet…do not call attention to oneself…_ She didn't even want to turn and look at the Yard behind her, but she did. People, dark shapes, passed by in twos, but not close enough for her to make out what they were wearing. The safe thing would be to presume they were foes. She watched, her head pounding, until she gave in to sleep.

A splash in the river, perhaps a fish, perhaps a duck or other animal, woke her some time later. Five o'clock by the luminous dial of her watch. It was full dark now. The ache in her head had lessened.

Cautiously, she peered around the post and listened; listened hard. Rifle fire and other sounds of battle from the O Street gate, a block away. In the other direction, muffled clatter that must be the fighting at the Hull gate; many blocks off. No other sounds of movement in the dark. Clouds obscured the moon, and there was no snow to reflect light. Still, the clouds themselves glowed with the reflection of the lights from the parts of the District that weren't in the blackout zone. One had to tread a little carefully, but it wasn't _impossible_ to see.

She climbed back over the fence, soundlessly, and in reflex, stood still until she could assure herself that no one was around. _So…back to NCIS, then..._

Halfway there, she heard a twig snap. "Stand still, woman, and surrender," came an accented voice from her right. Ziva slowly turned that way, her hands up. Two men, not in the style of camo being used by the American forces or NCIS. And they were standing invitingly close to her. _Hardly a challenge._

With a powerful kick to the groin, she took down the one on her right, and then threw over her shoulder the one on her left. The left guy scrambled to his feet and came at her, and met her knife. She pushed the surviving man over, and handcuffed him. At last they had a live capture to interrogate.

A scrape of a shoe on the walkway. "Who goes there?" she called, her voice as threatening as she could make it. _Always make a strong offense._

"Ziva?? Good grief; they've been looking all over for you!" Charles Zelig came into view.

"They have? You, too?" She knew Zelig had a bad leg; surely NCIS wasn't so desperate yet as to put him into a semi-combat role.

"Well, yes; yes, of course. The rest of the teams have peeled off, but I said I wanted to take one more look around."

"By yourself? That is foolish, Zelig."

"Well, I thought if I could be of any help at all…" he grinned at her, a little sheepishly.

_Oh, no! _She was appalled to think that he might be attracted to her. She felt no such attraction to him. The less thought about this, the better. "You can be of help. We need to get this prisoner back to NCIS. You just dog my footsteps, and watch to see that he does not get away. Come on, you." She pulled the prisoner to his feet, roughly, and they started walking.

- - - - -

In NCIS, the building grew darker when daylight vanished. Abby had hidden twenty of the candles in Jenny's desk drawer, with Jenny's consent. These were the secret backup candles. Now only two candles burned in the squad room. Before six to eight had made the place relatively cheery; the look now was that of a haunted house.

Agents sat here and there, some half-dozing, others just waiting for the expected call to relieve the Navy at the gates. Conversation was quiet. One of the candles burned out, and a sigh went up. The candle wasn't likely to be replaced until the other one went.

Someone, a woman, started crying. A female friend led her out of the room, and the rest of the agents sat in silent sympathy. No one could guess what would happen next.

There came noise from the front entrance. _"NCIS?__ Who's in charge of the next team? We of the Navy need relief at the front gate."_

"That would be me," called Gibbs, coming down the stairs with his jacket over one arm. "Team A, we're up."

_"I_ am in charge of Team A," came another voice from the entrance. "Team A, report to me. And someone please take this prisoner into holding."

_"Ziva!!!"_ People thundered down the stairs to see her; filling the small front entrance. She was happiest to see Gibbs' and Tony's grins.

"Agent David, would you like me to treat your wounds before you go out?" That was from Jimmy Palmer, looking oddly calm and confident.

Ziva shook her head. "I am fine now. It is mostly dried blood. Maybe I can frighten the enemy at the gate." She marched the prisoner in front of her. "See what you can find out about this one. I know that many of you from the CFRO speak Arabic."

"We'll take good care of him," said Gibbs, smirking. "Are you sure you can handle command?"

"Yes. Let us not linger, Team A. It is time to do our bit." She left with her team. Guards took the prisoner to holding, and everyone else filed upstairs.

Tony smiled at Zelig. "You came in at the same time as Ziva, did you? What were you doing out there?"

Zelig sighed. "I know I shouldn't have left. Not without telling someone. I—I was so worried about her. I wanted to be of help."

"You could have gotten yourself killed, and then how would that have helped anyone?!" Tony then shook his head, and backed down. "Sorry. That was out of line. I'm just stressed."

Zelig smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Tony, We're all stressed."

_Yeah, but I'm a better actor than you are,_ Tony thought. _I've still got my eye on you._


	14. December 25, early evening

_**Chapter 14: December 25, early evening**_

At the wall where unknown persons had cut through, a lone Marine stood guard in the gloom. It would be awhile before the concrete repair work had solidified enough to be sure that the wall would hold. The Marine, one Corporal Michaels, was deemed young but effective by his superiors. He should be able to handle the position. Even without a working phone, he had a back-up in Private Yee, who would join in or run for help, if need be.

_How dull this is, watching concrete harden. As much fun as watching paint dry. _

_Now where is Yee? He should have been back from the can by now…_ Instinctively he turned, his rifle leveled, at the sound of footsteps.

"It's just me, Michaels; Jason Yee," said Yee, not yet close enough to be visible in the faint cloud light.

"Okay, good." Michaels lowered his rifle. "I tell ya; I don't know whether to be unnerved or bored, waiting out here."

"A little of both for me, I guess."

They chatted a bit; on the weather, on Christmases past, on basketball, on what they would do when this crisis was over. Surely this wouldn't go on too much longer: the National Guard would arrive, or something else would turn in their favor, and the enemy would fall like bowling pins. This was an uncomfortable way to spend Christmas, to be sure, but Yee predicted that tomorrow would be sunny and warmer. Better days were always ahead.

Michaels stiffened suddenly as Yee was telling of one childhood Christmas in San Francisco. "…up on Nob Hill, the lights at Grace Cathedral—what is it, Michaels?"

"Someone's on the other side of the wall," Michaels hissed. Sure enough, there was a scraping as bricks were pushed around with some heavy instrument. Michaels quaked. _This is it._ _What should I do? What should I do? Run for help? Have Yee run for help? No, I'll stand and do battle. That's what a Marine does._ He had a last thought of his dress blues uniform; the most impressive uniform of all the armed forces. His family had been so proud when he'd been accepted into the Corps…

With a dull crash, the bricks gave way. One by one, four enemy combatants jumped through. Michaels got the first one, after two shots; it was the one to the face that felled him. It was the shots right after that that dropped Michaels, ending his indecision.

"Don't shoot!" Yee cried, his hands in the air. He knew a little Arabic, but not _those_ words. He wasn't even sure that Arabic was their tongue. Giving that up, he said again in English, "Don't shoot! I'm the one who signaled you. I am one of your contacts in the Marine compound."

"Yes. Private Yee. Good work," said a man in dark camo, appearing to be the leader of the small group.

"Well, okay, then." Yee lowered his hands and avoided looking at Michaels' body. "So…" he looked at the three living invaders and swallowed hard. "So, now you probably want me to get you into the compound. I can do that."

"Tell us which floor the Major's office is on. Which wing."

"Uh, third floor. In the west wing. Major Stallings is said to like the view—"

"We will find him. And his staff. And everyone else we need to find."

This time Yee did look at Michaels; the shirt of his camo now one pitch dark blob. Blood looked as black as tar in the limited light. "We agreed that you would minimize the number of kills, right? You'll take prisoners when you have to, and get the files you're after?"

"That is a civilized response," the leader said with a smile, then a grin.

"Well, good," said Yee. "You understand I can't come with you."

"I did not expect you to." The leader drew a knife and plunged it into Yee's chest.

The trio stepped around the bodies and headed for the Marine compound.

- - - - -

When Gibbs next came up the stairs to the third floor, he found Jenny duct-taping lit votive candles in their glass holders to the wall; three in all along the main hallway and one on either side of the stairs, along the balcony. "I'm trying to discourage people from carrying around their own candle," she said. "We're running low, and I don't want others repeating Roy Quirk's action of managing to set his sleeve on fire."

Gibbs chuckled and sighed, and held the last candle holder in place for her while she bit off a strip of duct tape with her teeth.

"There. Thank you, Jethro. Are you going to interrogate the prisoner?"

"I thought I might leave that for one of the other agents. If we auction off the rights, we'd raise a substantial amount."

She smiled wryly and looked down. "No, I meant, _when_ are you going to interview him?"

"Not just yet. Let him continue to sweat for awhile."

"Don't wait more than another hour, Jethro. He might have information that we need."

"I know. I won't wait too long. Anything else that you know needs doing right now? How are we fixed for supplies?"

"I have two of the Intel people and Abby counting foodstuffs. The Navy brought some provisions, some of which they've donated to us since we're billeting 20 of their men, but I think we're still going to be tight."

"And water?"

"I think we'll be okay there, though we may have to ask people to voluntarily conserve. We have a number of cases of water in the shelter-in-place shelves. As a last resort, we'll get into those." A thought occurred to her. "Have you seen McGee lately? He'd probably appreciate a visit."

"No, I haven't. Good idea."

- - - - -

Gibbs peered into the second floor break room, where one candle burned at the far end. Two men were asleep at that end. This wasn't good for what he wanted to do. He couldn't speak freely with Tim without risking waking the men, or having them overhear a private conversation.

Tim's spot was just inside the door, and Gibbs was surprised to find Tim loosely awake, and his cot exchanged for a gurney. "Hey, McGee," he whispered.

_"Boss!"_ Tim sat up, smiling, though immediately hushed on seeing Gibbs put a finger to his lips. His eyes widened but he didn't say anything as Gibbs pushed the gurney out of the break room and to the end of the hall.

"Wait," said Gibbs, and quietly crept back into the break room, returning with the lit candle. "Now, whose…who did you have to kiss to rate a gurney?" he said with a smile.

"It was Palmer's idea. He said the pressure on my leg wasn't good on a cot; that a gurney was more like a bed. But if someone worse off needs it, I'll have to give it back. I know I'm more comfortable this way. Has Palmer been promoted to doctor?"

Gibbs shrugged. "When all this is over, this is one of those things that will never have happened."

"Got it. He seems pretty good, anyway."

"As long as he doesn't lose confidence, he should do fine."

Gibbs saw the sweat glisten on Tim's forehead, and felt it. Hot. Still? Tim had come in with the first Navy wave, feverish. _Is this part of the reason __Palmer put him in the gurney? I wonder how much he's told McGee?_

"How's your broken wrist, boss?"

"Still broken. It'll heal."

"People—I know people who are a little cranky while their broken bones are healing. I, uh—"

Gibbs looked unusually fearsome by candlelight. Tim let his sentence die.

"Anything I can get for you, McGee?"

"Uh, no not really, boss. You have enough problems with your wrist, I'm sure—"

Again a glare. Tim would have pulled the thin blanket over his head if it would reach that far. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"You sure you don't need anything? More water?"

"No, I'm fine there. We must be starting to run low on bottled water."

_Dang his calculating mind. _"If you need water, you'll have it. Just ask. Are you warm enough?"

Tim hesitated. "Sometimes I feel really cold, and I want another blanket. Other times, I want to strip off everything. I—there must be other people who need blankets more than I do, boss. I can get by."

"Your bravery is duly noted, McGee, but trust me: as a wounded individual, you're up near the top of the list."

"I just figured…well, it's crazy…"

"What?"

"Well, I asked for a blanket, from, uh…" It was hard to think. "Conklin? Yeah. Conklin. No, that's not right. Zelig. Charles Zelig came to see me, and…" Tim started crying; couldn't help himself.

_What the__—?_ "What did Zelig say to you, McGee?" _Give me a reason why I shouldn't go punch that bastard's lights out right now._

"I, uh…"

"Tell me, McGee."

"It was nothing. I, uh, asked him about the situation, since no one else had time to tell me."

"And?" _How distressing can troop strength be? McGee's no coward._

"He, uh, he told me about all the people we've lost. Named them all; told me how they died. It's just…sad. Really sad."

Gibbs held his temper, while rolling over in his mind all the forms of torture to which he could subject Zelig. _He may or may not be a double-agent, but he's a waste of space as a human being._ "So now you know," said Gibbs. "We'll miss them all. But we need to keep going."

"Give me something to do, boss," Tim pleaded. "I have a brain, and a good memory; give me a problem to solve."

"I don't have any ideas at the moment, but I'll think on it. Let me get you back to the break room, and you try to sleep some more. You got painkillers?"

"One more pill, then I—I have to wait until Ducky comes back on. Palmer said he doesn't want to hand out prescription meds without Ducky's okay."

"That's reasonable. Okay, here we go…" Gibbs started pulling the gurney. "And I'll personally see that you get an extra blanket."

"Thanks, boss," Tim smiled, his eyes closing. "I know I can count on you."

- - - - -

Gibbs went directly to Autopsy after leaving Tim. Jimmy Palmer was spraying his hands with antibacterial wash. "Palmer. I hear you're doing a good job."

"Oh! Oh, hello, Agent Gibbs. I'm uh, trying my best." Jimmy smiled shyly.

"Keep it up. Can you let Ducky have another three hours down? Then you can have a good long nap yourself."

"No problem, Agent Gibbs. Something I can do for you? Is your wrist bothering you?"

Gibbs shook his head. "I'm after information. You put McGee in a gurney; told him it was to make his leg more comfortable."

"Yes; yes, I did."

"Very thoughtful of you. It wouldn't have anything to do with his fever, would it?"

Jimmy swallowed and looked away before looking Gibbs in the eye again. "He has an infection. So far nothing we've—I mean, Doctor Mallard—has given him has done much good. The wound needs to be seen to surgically; that's way beyond what we can do here without power. Agent McGee needs to get to a hospital. I—I was trying to make him more comfortable."

Gibbs looked at him for a moment, and then put a hand on his shoulder. "Good work, Palmer."

- - - - -

The Marine compound was relatively quiet where Leutze Park met the back of the compound. The three dark camo clad men slipped silently up to that gate.

A lone guard stood there looking bored. Who would expect trouble from inside the Yard? Nonetheless, his expression suddenly changed as a sixth sense alerted him. He brought his rifle to the ready.

The intruders had the advantage, though. The Marine was cast in the light of an oil lamp hanging overhead. Two tried to sneak up on him, to make the kill as silent as possible.

He saw them just in time to get off an unaimed shot. It proved useful, strangely; getting one man in the forehead. In addition, the sound attracted other nearby Marines. While the guard took a shot to the arm and fell, his life was saved by the intruders being too distracted by the other Marines to finish him off.

One of the intruders broke away, dodged to the side, and rushed into the compound. He moved fast, very fast, up the stairs on the west wing side. Additional Marines couldn't catch up to the wiry man.

"What's going on?" Major Stallings came out of his office, pulling on his coat.

"Major! Get back inside, sir!" more than one man called. But before the major could react, the intruder was right before him, and had his automatic rifle pointed at Stallings' gut.

"Whatever you want, you're not going to get it," Stallings said coldly. Indeed, at that moment, four Marines had caught up to the one, and put their rifle ends in his back.

"It does not matter," said the man, setting down his weapon. "The door has opened. You cannot stop our invasion now."


	15. December 25, mid evening

_**Chapter 15 – December 25, mid evening**_

The reconstituted Team A, now under Ziva's leadership, took up position at the Isaac Hull gate. The Navy team nodded their thanks as they left, feeling wearier now than just about any time since leaving basic training.

This was a different Team A, now, since the first one that had gone out the previous night. Gibbs and Tony had other duties now. The team had retained Harlie Moynihan of the CRFO (an expert sniper) and another CFROer; and had added an SA of HQ and an eager leftover seaman from the Navy rotation. Nonetheless, they coalesced quickly, Ziva noted with satisfaction.

Off to one side, Ziva conferred with the ensign who had led the Navy team. "I can't say how many rounds we're fired," he sighed. "But clearly, their body armor beats ours all to hell. The only guys we've been able to nick are the ones where we hit a hand or the face. Even the arms and legs have a more- fortified-than-usual armor. I'd love to take a look at it."

"We have captured a combatant," Ziva remarked, "plus we have the bodies of two enemies killed. Perhaps we can learn something from them."

"I hope so," said the ensign. "We need something to give us an edge."

When the ensign left, Ziva joined the battle, pondering the information the ensign had provided. _The more you know about your enemy, the more power you have over them._

She sidled over to Moynihan. "Can you hit hands or faces?"

"Not both in one shot, Ziva, but yeah."

"Do that, then."

Moynihan took out the next attacker with one shot to the face. "Seems almost cruel, Ziva," Moynihan said. "But it wouldn't be considered a war crime, so I guess that's what we've gotta do."

"Yes," Ziva said. "Continue." She moved off then, as a Marine was signaling her attention. "Begging your pardon, Officer David, but you're wanted back at NCIS for an emergency meeting."

"But my team—"

"I'll take care of 'em, ma'am. I led a unit in Iraq," said the sergeant.

"Very well, sergeant. I've instructed my sniper to shoot for the most vulnerable areas; the face and the hands."

The sergeant grinned. "Did a little sniping myself, ma'am. I think I'll join in."

With a smile, she left him and hurried back to NCIS.

- - - - -

At the NCIS entrance, the guards had doubled, and looked both sterner and more suspicious. Ziva found her badge and NCIS ID weren't enough to gain her entrance. Of course, with no power, the usual sophisticated electronic tests were useless. By candlelight, reading from a sheet of paper, the guards asked her a number of questions, repeating some. She forced herself to stay patient and polite, realizing that something had happened to ratchet up security. When the guards were satisfied, Ziva was told she was wanted in the Director's office.

"—also as far as the piers, do you think?" Jenny was saying when Ziva was ushered in by Cynthia. "Oh, good, Ziva; you're here. Have a seat."

Ziva took quick count of the attendees. Besides Jenny, she saw Gibbs, Conklin, Zelig, Major Stallings of the Marines, Lieutenant Townsend of the Anacostia Naval Base, and old Commander Leino of the Yard Naval Office. An extravagant two candles lit the room, attesting to the importance of the meeting.

"Let me bring you up to speed, Ziva," Jenny said. "The enemy breached the hole in the M Street wall a little while ago. It's known for sure that four got through; three were killed by our side, and one was captured. But we don't know if there were others that slipped in. The two Marines watching the hole were killed."

"And neither had time to, ah, 'sound the alarm'?" Ziva asked, a little puzzled.

"Told you she was a natural warrior," said Stallings. "Yes, Ziva; we suspect that one of the two guards may have been on the take, at best. But that's beyond our scope at the moment. The remaining enemy agents that we know of tried to invade the Marine compound, where we got them."

"Our questions," said Gibbs, "are these: How many other attackers came in? Where are they? How many were hiding here even before yesterday? Where are _they_ now? Who among us is working with the enemy? How can we find them and identify them?"

"For the last item, Intel can create a profile," said Conklin, nodding at Zelig. "The type susceptible to recruiting by an enemy. We can then go through our people lists, and—"

"That's all very well and good, Earl, but I refuse to believe that any of my NCISers, in any position, are working for the other side," Jenny said with ice in her voice, and she stood up.

Gibbs, beside her, motioned her back down. "I don't like to think so, either, Director, any more than Stallings did of his Marines. But we have to accept that it's possible."

"It's _always_ possible," said Townsend, and Zelig nodded, slowly.

Conklin spoke up. "Ziva, because of your experience, we'd like you to work with Commander Leino doing strategy. Both of you know the Yard like the back of your hands; Leino is a skilled tactician, and I know you've done some work along those lines. Figure out where they've been; where they are now."

"The prisoners we have?" Ziva asked.

"We'll interrogate them right after this meeting. Gibbs will take one; Townsend the other. Don't know if they're big enough fish to know too much, though."

"Because of this, we've tightened security like never before," said Zelig.

"I noticed," said Ziva. "I was questioned very thoroughly, just now, before being allowed back in the building."

"Good. That's how it's supposed to work," said Zelig. "We're no longer so much on the offense as on the defense. We have to be 1000 per cent sure of who gets into the NCIS building. We have people here who aren't trained to defend themselves—most of the Intel and MTAC people, and Abby Sciuto, Dr. Mallard, and Jimmy Palmer as well. Their lives are our responsibility."

- - - - -

Tony narrowed his eyes at Zelig's words. In his mind he rated this on what he called his mental Sincere-o-Meter. He could picture the meter's hand swaying, vibrating, and finally coming to a rest at the 55 per cent mark. Not quite at the point where you wanted to cry out "Liar, liar, pants on fire!" but it could turn out that way.

At Gibbs' request, Tony was secreted inside the small conference room off Jenny's inner office, where Gibbs spent his rest time. Gibbs had distracted Jenny long enough for Tony to sneak in, before the others arrived for the meeting. In less than 30 seconds Gibbs had shown Tony the holes behind a painting on the wall adjacent to Jenny's office; holes large enough to peer through and hear through, but due to a clever, porous art piece on the wall on Jenny's side, not visible from her office. The truly pleasing bit of all this, Tony thought, was that Jenny _knew nothing of the holes,_ according to Gibbs. Gibbs had told him that former Director Tom Morrow had showed him the holes, but was a little vague as to who had had the holes put in. No matter.

His eyes were practically stuck on the wall, but the view through the holes was perfect. The sound also was crisp; all of the people present, being leaders, were used to projecting; Ziva, the only non-leader, was confident enough to never mumble anyway. Tony wished he could take notes, but his room was totally dark. He kept a tightly-reined mind on the proceedings, and forced himself to mentally record the conversations as best as he could, and try to pick up on the nuances of Zelig and Conklin.

_"We can't worry overmuch about our non-combatants,"_ Conklin was saying. _"They were given the chance to take leave last week, and didn't. Right now they'__re a __distraction__ and a liability if we have to defend the building."_

An angry cry emerged from the others. _"They've been doing real work!" _someone said. _"We might have lost several agents if it weren't for Ducky and his medical crew,"_ another put in.

_"All right; I can make allowance for the medical personnel. But no one else should have been permitted to stay. Now, now; you can all gang up on me, but you have to admit I'm right. You just know that if the worst happens, one or more of our agents is going to want to defend Abby Sciuto instead of following strategic orders, and—"_

_"Director, are you going to—" _Gibbs growled.

Jenny had her face propped up with her hands. _"Hindsight isn't helping, Earl,"_ she said with less force than was warranted.

Zelig half rose. _"As much as Earl and I don't see eye-to-eye very often, I think he's right on this. We have to do so__mething with the non-combatan__ts—"_

_"Like what? Shoot them?" _asked Gibbs.

_"Gentlemen. __Ladies__. As fascinating as I find NCIS in-house bickering, can we get back to the matter of the defense of the Navy Yard?"_ Stallings begged.

_"The only people in the Yard who aren't trained in at least self-defense, never mind offense, are NCIS people,"_ said Conklin. _"I'm just pointing that out."_

_"The Yard," _said Leino, testily. _"We're here to talk about defense of the Yard."_

Tony pondered this. What were Conklin and Zelig really saying, if there was something else behind their spoken words? Each did sound half-threatening, or a little fear-mongering. There wasn't enough information to go on. On the other hand, there certainly wasn't enough information to exonerate either man.

Leino's statement had done the trick, and the conversation did go that way. Gibbs and the Director hadn't seemingly tried hard to stop Zelig's and Conklin's hysteria; were they seeing if the men would hang themselves?

His mind wandered slightly, ever so slightly, and he didn't pay attention to the sneeze sneaking up on him. Just before it could erupt, he bit it back, with just a faint "Uech!" escaping.

But that was enough. Jenny looked puzzled, as though she'd heard something she couldn't identify. Zelig turned his head, not quite to Tony's position at the wall, but too close to be comfortable. Conklin appeared to not have heard—but he was around 60, and might have a hearing loss. Gibbs, Tony thought, had just a flicker of something run across his face and vanish.

Tony held his breath for so long he thought he'd pass out. Before that happened, the conversation had resumed, and Tony let out his breath very, very slowly. _I can't blow this; I can't blow this; I won't blow this._ He'd gotten some information this evening, including that puzzling bit about the "non-combatants"—but his conclusion was that Zelig and Conklin needed to be watched even more.

When the meeting broke up, Gibbs sent Jenny off on a fool's errand, and then came into the room where Tony was. Immediately, Tony apologized for the blocked sneeze, but Gibbs waved that away. "Did you pick up anything?"

"Distraction, maybe," said Tony. "I can't figure out otherwise why those two were on about the so-called 'non-combatants'. Why do they care so much as this point? It should have been an issue last week, boss."

Gibbs nodded in satisfaction. "Go on…"

"You know them better than I do. I didn't think they got along too well. Yet Zelig agreed with Conklin, very publicly, at one point."

"Even the greatest of enemies will agree, now and then. Keep after them…but don't let them know you're watching."

"Got it. Where are you off to now, boss?"

"Time to interrogate a prisoner. I'll have one; Stallings is taking the other. Want to watch?"

"Sure. Especially if Conklin and Zelig will be there."

- - - - -

In the squad room, as the clock neared ten, nearly all of the special agents gathered, sitting on chairs, desks, the floor. In an effort to conserve, nearly all the candles in the other rooms had been extinguished. Jenny had begged the Navy and the Marines for supplies, but they too had few light sources left, and couldn't help.

It went unspoken, but several people recognized that keeping the masses together also made the room a little warmer. One candle burned at the side of the room, at the Most Wanted wall; its flame wiggled and panicked in the terror of a breeze that only it perceived. It was not a cheery sight, this candle that looked like it could go out at any minute.

With the building's systems off, all the sounds from outside, normally, masked, now sounded loud. The wind had picked up, and things could be heard blowing across the Yard. Something, a plastic trash lid, perhaps, hit a window with a bang and blew on it way. A few people cried out at the sound.

A woman's voice rose, tearfully, in song.

_Weave, weave, weave me the sunshine  
__Out of the falling rain;  
__Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow  
__And fill my cup again…_

She repeated it, and others joined in. They sang again, and again.

The door downstairs opened, and footsteps ran up the stairs. "All agents!" cried a voice. "All available agents! We need you at the gates and the wall breach!"

The same notion shone on all their faces. _Is this it? The final battle?_


	16. December 25, late evening

_**Chapter 16 – December 25, late evening**_

Jenny pushed through the crowd and thundered halfway down the stairs. _"Who called that?!!"_ she demanded. _"Who ordered everyone out to combat posts?!!"_

Supervisory Special Agent Alan Becker, head of the CRFO force, met her eyes. "I did, Director. We really need to mount an offensive before—"

"Agent Becker." Jenny cut off her gasp. _I should have known.__ The idiot who just hours ago was urging that we leave the Yard and make a pre-emptive strike on buildings along M Street._"Step outside. I want to talk with you. Everyone else—as you were. We are _not_ scrambling." She went the rest of the way down the stairs, her temper burning. Everyone saw, and made way for her.

Becker followed her outside to a safe distance, about 30 feet from the door, where she turned and faced him. "Alan, just what is going on in that head of yours???"

"Oh, come on, Director; you see where this situation is heading. We need to get them—"

"We?? _WE??_ Alan, we are a _civil__ian_ agency operating under the Department of the Navy. _Civilians_; not military personnel. We are not trained combat fighters, and I will not subject my people unnecessarily to—"

"With all due respect, Director, none of the usual rules apply. This is _war_!"

"No, this is _not_ a declared war. Or at least if it is, we haven't been in communication with Congress for them to tell us."

"The Yard must be defended—"

"We're doing that, to the extent that we can. But as we _are not_ the military, I am not going to risk barely-trained special agents on a foolhardy mission of playing soldier."

"This is not playing—"

"I know you're ex-Army, Alan. I know you had time in Afghanistan and Iraq, both. But we're not Army, Navy or anything else here. We're civilians, defending the Yard, yes, but mostly we're defending ourselves, each other, and the NCIS building. No one this side of the Capitol Building expects anything more of us. And that is _all_ we will do, Alan. No offensives, no heroics. _Is that understood?"_

He hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "Understood, Director."

"Good. I hope you do," she said, and her voice was stony. "Now, what were you doing?"

"I was at the O Street gate."

"Fine. Return to your position there." She watched him turn and go, and she shook her head. _I hope this puts an end to his silly role-playing._

- - - - -

The enemy attacker who had been captured by Ziva was sitting alone and impassively in interrogation room #1, as he had been for twenty minutes. Gibbs figured that the longer the prisoner sat there, the more unsettled the prisoner would be. After Gibbs had tracked down a nice, warm blanket and had delivered it himself to Tim, he was ready to face the attacker.

Tony stood in the observation row, watching the prisoner. He frowned. Was the prisoner not worried, thinking them soft…or did he know something they didn't? He was still wondering as Gibbs entered the interrogation room with Nadia Brooks of the CRFO, who was fluent in Arabic and a couple other Middle Eastern languages, and knew the cultures well. _Good. Time to get some answers._

"DiNozzo. Gibbs started yet?"

"Not yet," Tony said casually, giving Conklin a bland look as the man came up. _Blast. What is he doing here?!__ Well, at least I can ke__ep an eye on him._ Both turned their attention to what was happening on the other side of the one-way glass. They'd have to be quiet, as the door was open a crack so that they could hear the interrogation. With no power, the speaker system carrying the sound to the observation row did not work.

Gibbs did his usual stare-down of the prisoner; reading his face by the flickering candlelight. Brooks waited patiently, quietly; doing her own silent reading.

"What do you want of me?" the attacker finally burst out. "Why do you not kill me? _Allāhu Akbar._ God is great. I will be rewarded in death."

"Not by us, you won't," said Gibbs. "We need information. Let's start with your name."

The man sneered. "You do not have very much information without your computer power, do you? No facial recognition program, No fingerprint matching program. Let me see—is that not IAFIS by your FBI? All useless to you now." He laughed lightly.

"What's your name?" Gibbs asked mildly, unfazed.

The man sat back, looking like he would have crossed his arms in contentment, were it not for his handcuffs.

"Who sent you here?" Gibbs pursued, but got no answer. "What is your purpose?"

When there still was no answer, Gibbs picked up his pad of paper and got up. "Okay. If you won't talk, we'll just send you to Gitmo when power comes up here. You're not worth our time. And they'll take good care of you, seeing that you don't die by any means. Tough luck."

"Wait."

Gibbs slowly sat back down. "Go on."

"Yours is but the first attack. Once we have captured the Navy Yard, there will be other sites targeted in Washington, New York, Boston, and other cities. It is God's will."

_God's will to kill innocent people?_ Gibbs thought it but did not say it, thinking of people who'd come into this, merely doing their jobs, like the two pilots in the med-evac helicopter the enemy had shot down. Saying such a thing aloud was what the attacker wanted to hear.

"Okay. Thanks for the info," Gibbs said simply. "Take him back to holding," he called to the two guards outside the door.

The man looked surprised at not having the upper hand. He struggled against the guards' pulling him to his feet, and went out, still struggling.

"What do you think, boss?" Tony said, coming into the interrogation room, followed by Conklin.

Gibbs deferred to Brooks. "He's a low-ranked soldier," she said, with just a trace of contempt. "He honestly doesn't know much. He's bought into the getting-his-reward-in-heaven line, with gusto. He has the bravado, but everything I 'read' from him—his camo uniform, his mannerisms, his accent—speaks of one who was conscripted at a young age, perhaps pulled out of school at the age of 14 or 15 for this."

"Is it worthwhile to try questioning him again?" asked Gibbs. "Could we get the name of his leader, his location?"

"I don't think it's worth the effort. He's not likely to crack except under torture."

"We need information _now_," said Conklin. "If it will save lives—let's do whatever it takes."

Silence fell on the room. Gibbs looked down at the table, and Tony's face was carefully expressionless. Brooks' eyes were wide.

"We can't torture the SOB," said Gibbs after a long pause.

"Why the hell not?? They'd do the same to us!!"

"There are laws. I don't have to like all of them, but I'm sworn to uphold them, Conklin. I believe _you_ are, too."

"Whose side are you on, Gibbs?!" Conklin leaned over the table, pounding his fist on it.

"Ours," Gibbs said, levelly. "And in agreement with the Geneva Convention, which prohibits mistreatment, including torture, of prisoners of war. Assuming you call this a war."

"I can overrule you," Conklin said thinly.

"And I can take it to Jenny. You can't overrule _her."_

His face a mask of anger, Conklin stormed out.

"Thanks, Nadia," Gibbs said to the CFRO agent. "Your information was very useful."

"If you need me again, Gibbs, just let me know." She rose and left. Gibbs closed the door behind her.

"What do you think?" Gibbs asked his senior agent.

"Conklin's a smooth guy, I'll say that," Tony said, scratching his chin. "Has he always been like this?"

"Pretty much."

"But this could be an act. If he is a double agent, of course he won't be playing his hand."

"You've kept tabs on him?"

"Well, I haven't been following him into the men's room, but…yes, I know where he's been going. I check the sign-in and sign-out logs of the building about every 90 minutes. He hasn't left the building once."

"He could be signaling someone from inside."

"Geez. I hate to think that we have yet another bad apple. If he's signaling anyone, I hope it's Zelig. It would make my job sooooo much easier." He yawned and stretched.

"Hey! When was the last time you had any sleep?"

"I got an hour around 9 a.m. I'm fine."

"Well, it's after 10 p.m. now. Go grab five hours…That's an _order_, DiNozzo."

Tony yawned again. "How about you, boss? You getting enough? Sleep?" he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"Get out of here," Gibbs said, smiling.

"You know what I really like about this blackout?" Tony said to Gibbs with an easy grin as he got up. "It's that, even in this crisis, we don't have to worry about someone having bugged this room."

The person on the other side of the one-way glass touched the little receiver he'd slipped into his ear, the one unaffected by the e-pulse, and smirked._ If only they knew…_

- - - - -

Lieutenant Casey Townsend was just finishing his interrogation of his assigned prisoner in interrogation room #2. The session hadn't been productive at all, even though Townsend asked some of his questions in Arabic.

Observing the interrogation, were Charles Zelig and Major Stallings of the Marines. "You guys do this a lot?" Stallings asked Zelig in a cheerful whisper as they stood in the observation row. "It looks like fun."

Zelig's lips quirked. "We don't consider intelligence gathering 'fun'. We have no official sense of humor, of which I am aware."

"Have it your way. Townsend obviously knows what he's doing, Do you speak any Arabic?"

"Me? No. I know some Russian and Spanish and Chinese, but I've never particularly liked learning languages."

Townsend rose then, looking like he was ready to bite off someone's head. "Take him to holding!" he called to the guards, and waited a minute while they did so. He then stomped out.

"Get anything, Casey?" Stallings called to him as Townsend swept by.

"A headache," Townsend called back. "Either he doesn't know who his boss is, or he's very good at not saying. Even the threat of going to Gitmo didn't faze him."

"Ah, you know these young soldiers," said Zelig. "Like most teenagers, they think they're immortal, anyway. He's probably got a silly notion that somehow he'll escape and rejoin his unit."

"Whatever," Townsend called back.

- - - - -

Tim was grateful for the blanket that Gibbs brought him; so grateful that once his boss was out of the room, he wept. Then he snuggled into the covers and slept, peacefully, for about an hour and a half. At the end of that sleep cycle, he moaned a little, then fell back asleep.

This time he dreamed; the same, disturbing dream of the night before. Demonic men in blue camo moved about the squad room. He could see them more clearly now; the yellow eyes, the fangs, the drool. They stalked their victims, unnoticed. Tim squirmed in horror as a woman was speared; as a man was sliced with a sword. He tried and tried to see the victim's faces, but they were all a blur to him, as if the Future was willing to only tell him so much. _Who will die? Who? Who? _From the sidelines he watched; unable to cry out a warning; unable to move in.

With a start he awoke, his heart running for its life. The break room where he slept was dark; its lone candle having burned out recently. Tim had no fears of the dark, he never had; some of his best thinking was done in the dark. And suddenly he knew—knew what his subconscious was trying to tell him. This was the puzzle, the brain assignment he'd wanted. It'd been there all along; he just hadn't seen it.

He had to tell Gibbs. Or the Director. No one else would do. Well, he trusted Tony and Ziva implicitly, but he wasn't sure they'd see the need to act. Gibbs would. The Director would. When would one of them next be by?

_Could be hours._

_This can't wait hours._

He heard a sound out in the hallway. Something large, metal, being dragged by someone. It could be friendly, or not.

Tim worried that his knowledge would be discovered before he could speak with Gibbs or the Director. _If I'm eliminated…maybe no one will guess the truth until it's too late._

He felt around the edges of the gurney. No sign of the cane the Navy had loaned him. Some helpful person, probably Palmer, had spirited it away. Tim swore quietly, and willed his eyes to see enough in the dark room to locate anything else that he could use in the cane's place. Remembering rather than seeing, he thought of the broom and mop in the janitor's closet just about twelve feet away.

Getting out of the gurney was at least as painful in thought as it was in action. He lowered the foot of his good leg to the floor, and then, while grasping the edges of the gurney, let his body slip carefully to the floor. From there he crawled to the janitor's closet, trying to cover up the pain screaming in his mind. _I can't give up; I can't…_

The first item he came to, after clawing the door open from the bottom, was a pushbroom. It would do. Grabbing the broom with one hand and using the other to grasp the doorframe, he pulled himself to his feet. His leg was still screaming bloody murder, but with the broom brush under his arm, he now had a crutch, and could get around.

Now, to find Gibbs…

He moved out into the dark hallway, slowly. The carpet masked some of the sound of the broom end's thud, but not enough for Tim's satisfaction. He mustn't be noticed. No one would believe he should be out of bed. He also wasn't sure who he could trust anymore. The wrong person, someone he hadn't identified yet, could capture or kill him.

_Where would Gibbs be now?_ _Probably on the third floor, near MTAC or the Director's office._

_I can't be seen…_

This meant the main stairs to the third floor, the ones usually used from the squad room, were out. But there was a set of stairs; basically only used as an emergency exit, close by. He would have to be extremely quiet, as there was no carpeting on these stairs. He didn't want to think how slow, or painful, the climb would be.

He pushed open the door cautiously. _If there's anyone waiting on the stairs, I'm dead._


	17. December 26, just past midnight

_**Chapter 17 – December **__**26, just past**__** midnight**_

The door to the stairs opened silently, and Tim breathed a prayer of thanks for that. He stepped in cautiously, holding the door so that it didn't swing back too quickly. Even a quiet latch click could betray him. Then it was closed, without a sound. His thoughts turned to his next objective. _Only one flight of stairs…__broken up by a landing halfway…I can do this; I can…_

_Step…quietly step…_How much his shoe leather wanted to do a solid _tap_ on the concrete. That was impermissible. So was the tap of the broom end. With reluctance he turned the broom 180 degrees so that the bristle brush would be what touched the floor. He could survive without that broad underarm support for a little while, but not long. The pointy end in his armpit would get unenjoyable very fast. He gripped the handle of the broom to try to keep the pointy end a bit away, but this threw off his balance.

_I do not need this aggravation; I so do not need this…_ Nonetheless, he realized that part of his anxiety came from his just not feeling well. Something about his fever; about the infection in his leg…_What did Ducky say? I can't remember…_ He moved across the short expanse to the first step so slowly; so quietly. The only sound he heard was the heavy-footed thudding of his heart.

It was dark; very dark in the stairwell. There was no candlelight here; just the ambient light of evening's reflected clouds coming in the window at the landing. Next to zilch, but better than nothing. Still, the first step seemed like an impossible height to scale. _Just do it, Tim. You can do it…_He remembered another time when he had been in bad straits, alone and hurt, and he'd imagined Gibbs' voice in his head, encouraging him every bit of the way until he managed to get to a place where he could be found.

_Boss!_ he wanted to cry out. _I need help__… _Gibbs was so close; somewhere in the building.But crying out here could be his downfall.

Sweating, he leaned against the stair rail and thought. His mind was not working at its best, he knew, but surely he could figure this out. The good leg had to take the lead; his weight would have to go on it while he pulled the bad leg up. First step…_Ow!_ the pain of the pointy end of the broom under his arm. _Ignore it…_There. Reaching up for the hand rail also helped. He swayed as he tried to bring the bad leg and his "crutch" up, and almost toppled over.

Frustration shook him like a terrier that has caught a rat. A dozen, two dozen reasons why he should give up shouted in his mind; each trying to talk over the previous one. Tim pressed his hands to his head, trying to silence the voices. Gradually, they subsided to a dull-spirited murmur.

_So cold…_ There was not a warm spot at all in the stair well. He carefully lowered himself to the step he was on and hugged himself. _What a sad way to die this would be,_ he thought with sudden soundness. _I wonder…_ He grabbed the step behind him, and with great effort, pulled himself up to it. _Yes!!!_ Grasping the broomstick so it wouldn't get lost, he pulled it along with him, delighting in his discovery, until the wooden broom handle met the concrete step with a _**thonk**_! Tim stopped. His breath refused to come, although his heart was revving. He listened and listened for the sound: the footstep, the door opening, that would signal his doom. But it didn't come. Then…_there!_ So faint; probably more than a floor off, and unidentifiable.

_Why, oh why, don't I have any weapons?! I don't even have a _knife! Well, he could probably do something with the broom, but not much. He pulled himself into spring mode; eyes trying to see the unseeable in the dark.

Then he nearly fell over in a start when the door on the third floor flew open and boots came clattering down the steps, a candle's light chasing away the blackness. Tim tried to hide; to fold into himself before discovery—

_"Tim!_ What are you doing here; what are you doing out of _bed??!!"_

_"Abby! Shhh!"_ he whispered, fearing it was already too late. If there was someone else on the stairs; they'd have heard. And they'd be here very shortly.

"No, Tim; I won't shush until you tell me what's going on!"

He considered. "I'm trying to get to Gibbs without being seen. That's all I can tell you, Abby; it's too dangerous. Now get out of here; quickly!"

"What's so dangerous?"

"Abby! Just go! Now!"

She stood, unwavering. "Tim, I'm scared enough already. But I'm not leaving you here. I—can't. So don't ask me to."

"Dang it, Abby! Get out!!"

But she was pulling him to his feet. "Lean on me," she said. "If you insist on going upstairs, I'll be your crutch."

"Abby, you don't understand! The danger—"

She put fingers to his lips. "We're all in danger. Right now, I'm going by what my heart says to do. Tim, I can't lose you again. Please."

He sighed quietly. "Okay. Let's go, then."

He got to his feet with her help, and she popped the candle and holder into a little sling she'd fashioned around her chest; freeing both hands. Tim was gladder than he could have imagined for her warmth and her strength. She gave him kindness and hope. Now the pain in his leg didn't seem so bad. Slowly they went up one step, then a second, and a third, and…

The sound came up behind them; whether quickly or slowly, they couldn't have said. Suddenly, it was just there; out of sight in the dark, but definitely there. They turned their heads and froze.

"Who is it?" Tim called, forcing his voice to be strong. "Who goes there?"

An ever-so-soft sound of a gum-soled shoe step, then a second. "Hi, kids. What are you doing out here?"

"Zelig!" Abby cried, momentarily loosening her grip on Tim. "You scared us! Why are you sneaking up on people like that?!"

Charles Zelig smiled; his sharp features magnified by the candlelight. "I'm sorry. Tim, should you be out of bed?"

Tim felt his chest ache, and he couldn't reply. He wanted to shout a warning to Abby, but the sound wouldn't come.

"We're just leaving," Abby said suddenly. "See you." With a burst of strength, she pulled Tim with her up the stairs, to the landing, and beyond; never stopping. And then they were at the third floor door, and Abby pushed it open.

_"Whew!"_ she said, as the door closed behind them. She helped Tim sink to the carpeted floor with her. "Tim, I really don't like that guy. Something about him just seems creepy…more so in the last 24 hours than ever before."

Tim didn't respond to that. "Do you know where Gibbs is? I have to talk to him."

"No, I don't. I'm pretty sure he beds down somewhere on this floor, but I don't know where. Want me to go find him?"

"Help me get up first, please. I can't stay here."

She hesitated. "Tim, I can see you're frightened of someone and…and you don't want to tell me for some reason. And I'm okay with that. Really. But it's so dark here. I can barely see you because I know you're there. If you want me to find Gibbs fastest, I'll have to leave you here. I think, no, I'm _sure_ you'll be okay. Tim?"

He thought, but his fear made up his mind. If he stayed here, he was an open target. "No," he said. "I have to get moving. How about taking me to the Director's office? If she's there, I can talk to her instead of Gibbs."

"If that's what you want. Tim, who…"

"Abby, promise me this: Don't be alone with Zelig."

"You got it. Mr. Creepy-Beard and I have _no_ common interests."

- - - - -

Jimmy Palmer made his rounds a little after midnight, pushing the thought of his tiredness to the back of his mind. He knew this schedule was nothing compared to what he'd have to face when he did his residency in a couple years. That didn't mean he couldn't feel tired now, though. But in half an hour or so, Dr. Mallard would be up, and he could finally get some sleep.

He stopped in at the second floor break room, and was mildly dismayed to find the room's candle had gone out. Snores rose from the occupied cots in the room. Palmer lit the candle he'd been carrying in his pocket. _Now for Agent McGee…_

In shock, Jimmy nearly dropped the candle. McGee's gurney was empty! Where was he? Who had taken him without consulting the medical staff? He checked the men's room across the hall, looking in each stall. No McGee.

Jimmy ran out and threw open the door to the stair well. He tore down the stairs, sure-footed by ambition, until he collided with someone.

_"Don't move, or it ends now!" _

Jimmy halted and obeyed in terror; feeling the knife blade at his neck.

"Let's see who we have here…" The man held up a flashlight. "Jimmy Palmer! Ah."

"Um…Mr. Zelig." Jimmy gulped. "Could you please…put down…the knife?"

"You were not the one I was expecting," said Zelig, coolly, holding the blade out menacingly for a moment more before resheathing it. "Be careful where you go, Jimmy."

"I, uh, I will." Jimmy slipped cautiously, gingerly around him and continued down to Autopsy. His mind was awhirl in ideas. _Why was Zelig on the stairs? Why was he carrying a knife, and so threatening with it? Who was he expecting? And where in the world did he get a flashlight??_

But all these thoughts evaporated as he entered Autopsy and found Ducky awake and talking to Gibbs.

"Ah, Mr. Palmer," said Ducky, smiling. "I've heard glowing reports on your performance this evening! Well done! Now off to bed with you, and be sure you get five to six hours."

"I will, Doctor, but there's a problem. Agent McGee isn't in his bed, and I don't know where he is!"

Gibbs looked puzzled. "When did you last see him?"

"Two hours ago. I checked in on him; he was asleep and looked as he had been. His pulse and respiration were fine, and he was still feverish, of course, but he appeared to be sleeping peacefully so I didn't wake him."

"Could he have gotten out of bed by himself?"

"If he was feeling desperate," said Ducky, hesitantly. "We'll find him, Jimmy. Thanks."

Jimmy headed for his cot in the men's section of the gym, letting the smile broaden on his face after he left Autopsy. _He called me 'Jimmy'!_

- - - - -

"Who or what could have made Timothy leave that nice bed?" Ducky murmured as he and Gibbs each pocketed a candle from Autopsy's secret stash.

"You tell me, Duck. Do you think he's in his right mind now?"

"He is still feverish, but that shouldn't impair his judgment too much. I'd say he's either afraid of someone, or on the trail of someone. Do you think we really have enemies inside these walls, Jethro?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"Dear me."

"I'm afraid that another possibility is that someone has abducted McGee."

"Perhaps he is just looking for _you_."

Gibbs grunted. "Let's get looking."

- - - - -

Cynthia was out doing something, but Jenny was sitting in the outer office when Tim and Abby came in. The look on Tim's face was enough for Jenny to know that this was something important. With a nod she dismissed Abby, and Jenny and Tim went to her inner office.

Jenny closed the door. "What gets you out of bed, Tim?"

"It's Zelig, Director," Tim said bluntly, after swallowing. "I think he's a double agent. In fact, I'm sure of it."

Jenny's hand, reaching for her half-drained bottle of water, stopped. _How many people is it now who suspect Zelig? Gibbs, Tony, Tim and I…only four? It seems like more._ "That's a serious charge, Tim. What makes you suspect him?"

"I—I—oh, crap. Sorry, ma'am. I had it all worked out in my mind, but it seems to have leached out. But I know, I swear, all the pieces fit together. Everything pointed at him."

"You're still feverish, Tim?" she said kindly. "Sometimes fevers can twist logic."

He shook his head. "No, this was real. I just need to pull the facts back together. And on the stairs just now, he—"

"He helped you up here?"

"No. No!" Tim told the story, and Jenny looked grave.

"That would never stand up in a court of law," she said, staring at the candle flame. "But this isn't a trial, either. Jethro is right: much of the time, you have to go with your gut. And if your gut is telling you Zelig is rotten, I'll believe you."

"It's more than that, Director. I think he wants certain people out of the way. Me, for instance."

"Why you?"

"Because I know how he works. He might think that I have something on him. I think he might have put that idea into Faith's head about the enemy hiding out on the _Barry_ or in the Navy Museum…he was hoping to get rid of us."

"But Faith was a double agent herself; didn't Gibbs tell you?"

Tim scratched his head, a little embarrassed. "Maybe. I don't know. My memory is a little blurry right now. Sorry." Images of the pretty woman flashed through his mind like video clips; her sardonic smile; her intensity at work; her body floating in the river, sightless eyes staring. He snapped back to attention. Jenny was speaking again.

"It's okay. Faith may have outlasted her usefulness on this assignment, and Zelig—or someone—may have thought this was a good time to get rid of her." She considered. "Clearly, you need protection. No, now, don't refuse; we look after our own here, and you're not in shape to defend yourself. You can bunk with Gibbs in this little conference room he's been using. There's already an unused cot in there. We'll tell everyone you're still sick and now in isolation, but we won't say where. Who do you want to have able to visit you?"

"Uh…my team. Abby. I guess that's it."

"A short list is good. All right, Tim; get some sleep. And don't worry; you're safe now."

"I know that, Director. But I'm worried about everyone else being safe now. Please; find some reason to take that bastard into custody before he winds up killing us all."


	18. December 26, 1 am

_**Chapter 18 – December 26, 1 a.m.**_

Gibbs grew dispirited. He'd been through most of the building, certainly all of the second floor, and there was no sign of Tim. No one had seen him. _Where could he have gone? Was he delirious enough to have gone outside?_ But the Marine guards at the front entrance hadn't seen him, either. That meant he was still in the building.

Eventually he reached Jenny's office. Maybe she'd heard something. Cynthia saw his drawn face and sent him right in to Jenny.

"Yes, I do know where Tim is," Jenny surprised him with her calm answer. "He's in the next room, sleeping." She relayed the story that Tim had told her.

Gibbs leaned back in his chair. "And McGee is convinced that he has something on Zelig, though he can't remember what?"

"Yes. I wonder why Zelig, and not Conklin? Is that significant?"

"That's easy. McGee's never worked under Conklin. He's had little ad-hoc assignments now and then for Intel, under Zelig. He knows him. I had thought he rather liked Zelig up until now; maybe this is some bottled-up displeasure surfacing."

Jenny pursed her lips. "His subconscious is trying to get through to him, maybe. But that means we may have to wait until he puts the pieces together."

"We don't have time to wait. Let's move on." Gibbs yawned and stretched. "I'm not sure what's night and day anymore. I feel all out of whack."

"You probably need more sleep. So do—" she halted, and sat staring.

"Jen?"

"Jethro, with this new information on Zelig…I don't feel safe leaving control here to either Zelig or Conklin while I sleep. And don't say you'll take control while I sleep; I need all the hours I can get to be able to talk things over with you."

"I hear you. But they'll be suspicious if they're never left in charge. That's why we put together the Top Four, to ease the load, and have 1-2 people always able to take downtime." He gave her a sideways glance. "Though I agreed to that _before_ I knew that you suspected one or both of them of being a double agent."

She blushed. "That was unavoidable. The SECNAV and I—"

"The SECNAV isn't here, Jen," Gibbs said quietly. "And he's not in communication with us now. _You're_ in charge. Make decisions."

"You and I can't do this alone. If it were a matter of only a few more hours, we could. But we'll have to assume this will go on for awhile." She fell silent, and looked down, then stole a glance at Gibbs. He looked concerned, and without ideas.

Suddenly she brightened, and put on a quirky smile. "I've got it! We'll make it the Top Five. That'll shift the voting power to our side."

"But there isn't anyone else with our power, unless you count that bloodthirsty idiot Alan Becker."

"No. I'm going to make a battlefield promotion," she said. "Where is Tony?"

- - - - -

Ziva and Commander Albert Leino met in his cozy, nearly-warm office in another building in the Yard. He lit a kerosene lamp, and it gave the small room a lively glow, seemingly almost like daylight, after all the votive candles.

Leino was a kindly older man, perhaps around Ducky's age, and Ziva liked him straight off. He treated her like an equal, with none of the usual strikes against her that others saw: she wasn't American, she was a female, and she was young. "So, I guess that wraps it up," he said at the end of a three-hour session. "Our conclusions are that the Yard is being defended appropriately, though a little more attention should be given to Marine's gate, and we should people on a few rooftops."

Ziva nodded. "Since we have no way of knowing how many enemy agents have infiltrated, that is not an issue we can address."

"That's not what the others will want to hear."

"I cannot help that. We must stay a _defensive_ force. We do not have the manpower to do offensive tactics. We are still having casualties."

Leino gave her a measured look. "They're going to want to know how long we can hold out."

"There are—there are too many variables," Ziva said, feeling her eyes go a little watery. "It might be days; it might be twelve hours. We have a good supply of ammunition still. But we cannot replace our casualties, and the enemy's troops seem substantial. If we lose many more troops…"

"That must not happen," Leino said quietly. "It must not."

- - - - -

Tim ran as fast as he could, considering his bum leg. Demons chased him without being able to catch him. His crutch changed from a push broom to a cane to a ladder and more. Why was he being chased? Why _him_? He didn't know. Then he tripped and cried out.

"Hey. Shhhh. Probie; it's just a dream."

Tim came awake then. "Tony?? What are you—what time is it?"

"About one-thirty. Go back to sleep, and try to stay quiet, if you can. We don't want people to know you're in this room."

"Yeah. Okay." Tim was still fighting sleepiness. "But what are you doing here?"

Tony smiled wryly. "I'm nominally in charge, believe it or not. Jenny's sleeping and Gibbs is off doing something."

"But why isn't Conklin or Zel—" His eyes grew large as Tony made a _Quiet_ motion. "Oh. _Both_ of them??"

"Shhh. Not the time or the place, and I've said too much. And I've got to get back to Jenny's office and pretend that this little place you're in doesn't exist. Do you need anything? No? Well, then, I'll see you later."

Tim returned Tony's calm smile. Tony seemed to be wearing the thin mantle of leadership well. It was comforting to know this. Tim closed his eyes and was asleep before Tony had left the room.

- - - - -

In the squad room, ten agents sat, either unable to sleep or being ready for the next call to action. At the moment, fourteen agents were at the Hull or the O Street gate. Those teams would want relief soon.

For the agents in the squad room, it was a time to get to know each other better. Three were assigned to HQ; the rest were from CRFO. "I keep thinking about her, Brian," said one of the Washington agents. "Rhonda Schofield, from your unit? The one who died early on?" he added, perhaps unnecessarily. They all remembered the med-evac helicopter that had come for her and been shot down.

"She was great," replied Brian, one of Schofield's male counterparts. "A doll. A pleasure to work with."

"Was she—was she the woman I heard earlier in the evening, before this all started, crying because she wasn't home for her daughter's birthday party?"

Brian sighed heavily. "Yeah. Emma just turned five. Rhonda was very family-oriented. Sounds strange, but I think this was what made her a good SA in the CRFO. She cared. She had a mission. She was willing to fight for a better future for her family, and for everyone else." The agent blinked a few times and looked to his side. "Hey, Lon. What are you doing there?"

An agent sat at the room's lone candle, writing on a pad of Post-It notes. "Just writing."

Brian chuckled. "Writing what? The great American novel?"

Lon took two notes, stuck them to each other, folded them, and put them in his pocket. "Notes to my family. Things I want them to know, about how I feel—well, in case I don't make it out to tell them, myself."

"You'll make it out, Lon. You'll be walking your daughter down the aisle in a few years."

"Geez, I hope so," Lon smiled thinly. "Let someone else listen to her loud music at all hours." But he didn't stop writing.

"Can I have part of that pad?" another agent asked shyly, as did another and another. Another pad was found in a desk drawer, and soon most of the agents were writing notes.

- - - - -

CRFO Unit Head Alan Becker surveyed the battle scene at the Hull gate from a little ways back. This wasn't his team's time to be fighting, but he wanted to keep track of the action. He went over to Team C head, Dave MacPherson. "Have you been watching the direction that they're coming from, Dave?"

"Uh-uh," Dave grunted. "They're just here. In our faces."

Becker shook his head. "They're coming from somewhere. Along M Street, I'll bet."

"Wise guess, Alan, since this _is_ M Street we're at."

"No, I mean the buildings along it. Across the street from the Yard. If we could…" his voice trailed off, and he turned and walked back to HQ as Dave's attention was drawn to something else.

Twenty minutes later, Becker returned with two eager young agents, and all three were heavily armed. "We're going out there," Becker said calmly to Dave. "Can you give us a little cover?"

"What?? Alan, this is _nuts!_ _And_ it's against the Director's orders! You know she said we are not mounting an offensive, and definitely not leaving the Yard!"

"There's only one way to stop those bastards," said Becker, fingering the grenade attached to his belt. "Come on, boys." The three slipped around the dark corner of the ruined edge of the gate, and into the shadows, a little ways away from the fighting.

"Alan!!" Dave sank back, feeling history might be about to be made, with mixed results. "Kathleen. Run back to HQ and tell whoever has the Com what's going on."

- - - - -

The agent found Gibbs and Tony conferring in Jenny's office. Gibbs swore on hearing the news. "That fool was bound to bring it crashing down on all of us." He glanced at the sling he wore and grimaced. "You're back in charge, DiNozzo. Do you know if Ziva's awake?"

"I think so, boss. She got in a little while ago from her meeting with Leino; said she wanted to work out a bit before going to bed. I think she's just outside the front door. You going to stop him?"

"Going to try," Gibbs called back as he ran out.

- - - - -

"Where is Becker?" Ziva asked Dave as she and Gibbs ground to a halt at the Hull gate.

"Don't know for sure. I can't see him for the dark and the fog. They headed a little west up M when they left."

"Are we going out, Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

He stared bleakly at the street. "No."

A loud cry came from the street. "All right, you cretins; get a taste of _this!"_ An explosion lit up the area as a grenade landed before a small school just across the street, blowing the front wall out. By the flames' glow they could see men in the enemy camo pour out. Becker and his men cut into them with rifle fire, then ran to the next building, a fraternal lodge, and repeated the action, laughing loudly.

"Sick, but effective. In a sick way," Ziva murmured.

_Boom! Boom!_ went the grenades. The smallish group of enemy combatants at the Hull gate seemed perplexed, and unsure of what to do. Finally they decided to concentrate on Becker's group.

Evidently Becker knew this moment would come. With a war whoop, he darted around the enemy and headed for the church nearby, pulling grenade pins as he went, but not letting the grenades go. He was probably smiling, those who knew him best said later, when he reached the door of the church, enemy close at hand, and the four grenades went up in a mighty blast that could be heard all the way at the Capitol building.

"Did he just save us, or doom us?" asked Ziva.


	19. December 26, 2 am

_**Chapter 19 – December 26, 2 a.m.**_

"I just don't understand why _you_ were appointed to the Top Four," Earl Conklin grumbled, holding onto his candle tightly. The gesture conveyed a sense of entitlement to the little light, even after most people had voluntarily given up a personal candle.

"Top Five," Tony said with a calm smile, arms crossed behind his head as he sat at Jenny's desk. His glance flickered lazily between beefy Conklin and his skinny counterpart, Zelig.

"Why you? You've had no managerial experience! Get Jenny out here. I demand to speak with her."

"I was a team leader for four months," Tony said, still casually. "That's managerial. And with Gibbs injured, they needed someone to supply, well, the other 50 per cent of Gibbs. And here I am. In charge."

"We need to see Tim McGee," Zelig broke in, with a broad smile. "We think he may have information that could speed up the investigation."

"The investigation? What investigation?"

"Of whom we're fighting! Come on, DiNozzo. Don't be an idiot," Conklin snapped.

"Sorry," Tony grinned. "Some things just come naturally to me, as Gibbs has long suspected." He sobered a bit. "Why do you think McGee has any information that he hasn't given already? The guy's like a leak in a dam…once the words start flowing, he doesn't stop." With half an ear—which he was glad didn't turn, like a dog's—he listened for any sound coming from the little room next door. Like that snurfling sound Tim sometimes made when he slept. But all was quiet, thank heavens.

"Tim tended to…hang around a lot with poor Faith Underhill," remarked Zelig, looking appropriately sorrowful for the young woman's loss.

Tony shrugged slightly, but noticeably. "Maybe because they were assigned to work together? Under you?"

"It's more than that, Tony. We still don't fully know why Faith, rest her soul, and Tim left the building and went on the Barry," Zelig said. "Did they suspect something? Were they following a lead, a tip? It's important we find out from poor, fragile Tim."

_Oh, brother. _"It's 2 a.m. Can't you let him sleep?"

Sidestepping that, Conklin said, "We went to see him, where his cot is, in the second floor break room. He wasn't there. Where is he?"

Managing to look a little concerned, Tony said, "He's in isolation, due to his continued infection. Ducky says _no visitors_ for the time being. Maybe in twelve hours or so…"

The other two men looked unsatisfied. "I'm sure we'd do him no harm," said Conklin. "But come on, Charles; we can, uh, wait."

Tony looked after them blandly as they left, and then mopped his brow. He wished either Gibbs or Jenny were awake; he could certainly benefit from some advice right now. There was no doubt that those two wanted a piece of Tim, probably because, as they said, they thought he knew something—though what they thought Tim really knew was different from what they said. Well, let them sniff around Autopsy. There were two Navy guards at the entrance, equipped with a very short list of people who could be admitted. Zelig and Conklin were not on that list.

The other curious thing was that Zelig and Conklin seemed to almost be working together. Tony recalled the fights that had started when Zelig had come here for the Intel manager job, two years ago. Every encounter old, conservative, Iowa native Conklin had with youthful, casual and liberal California native Zelig caused sparks. At times the two didn't seem able to stand the other. Now today, while not bosom buddies, they at least seemed to be united in this insane cause.

Did this make one of them less guilty, led likely of being a double agent? Or both of them more so?

His thoughts were with Tim, and now Gibbs, sleeping in the next room. _Don't worry, Probie. They're not going to find you._

- - - - -

Jimmy awoke with a jump. He had to struggle to untangle his feet from the sheet and blanket. It wasn't that he'd been dreaming, for he rarely remembered his dreams. No. this was worse. This was guilt. Guilt for something left undone.

_I didn't tell anyone about how weird Zelig was acting,_ he thought, shaking in dismay. _I know everyone says he's a nice guy, but why was he carrying a knife and being so threatening?__ I've got to tell._

He crept out of the men's dorm section of the gym. Normally, he would report problems to his immediate superior, Ducky; but this, he feared, was out of Ducky's scope. It needed Agent Gibbs or even the Director…

"…and that's what happened, Agent DiNozzo," he said a little while later in Jenny's office. He was glad that the special agent was taking him seriously, for once.

Tony's mind was racing with the implications. _Do we have enough on Zelig to take him into custody, finally? If not, we're damn close! _"Thanks, Palmer," he said, and then eyed the medical student. "You understand you may be in some danger, don't you? If Zelig really is up to trouble, he could, ah, take it out on you since you know something about him."

"Why can't you just arrest him??"

"I wish it were that simple. Do you want to move into a safe room for your sleeping hours?" _Not that we have many, but there are a few rooms here on three that would do…_

Jimmy drew himself up straight. "I don't want to be a coward, Agent DiNozzo. The gym is fine for me."

"Have you ever handled a gun?"

"No! Never!" Jimmy looked startled.

"Fine. Now is not the time to learn. I think you'll be okay in the gym; there'll be lots of people around you with guns who will defend you, if necessary. Just watch your step outside the gym."

"I will. And…thanks for listening to me."

- - - - -

Tony sat, fretting, yawning after Jimmy left. He was dying to wake up either Gibbs or Jenny with the news, but another side of him said to let them sleep. They were dead tired and deserved their rest. In another two hours Tony would be able to go off, and he looked forward to that.

_Is there a threat here? Or am I reading too much into the situation?_

It was still possible that Conklin and Zelig were still on the side of the angels. Possible. Even the best of people sometimes did odd things in times of stress. Tony fought to keep an open mind.

He nodded uneasily over his bottle of water, wishing it was coffee. _Maybe I should have escorted Palmer back to the gym; to see that he got there safely. But that would mean leaving McGee vulnerable._ What if he had to choose between defending Palmer and defending Tim? Now that was a really, really hard question, and it made him squirm. Palmer was healthy; Tim was injured. But Tim had training and might be able to defend himself; Palmer did not. There was no good answer. He chose inaction; keeping himself at Jenny's desk.

- - - - -

Jimmy headed back to the gym, this time keeping to the more public stairs for at least the journey between the third and second floors. He passed the small knot of special agents in the squad room, some of whom nodded to him. A few were slumped over the desks, in violation of the directive to sleep in the cots. At this hour, probably no one cared.

From here, Jimmy could have taken the stairs that went down to the front entrance. There were Marines guarding the entrance; you couldn't be much safer than that. Still, that was hardly the closest route to the gym. Just about everyone used the back stairs to get there. He could be down the stairs in a few minutes, and just a few steps down the back hallway was the gym. Yeah, that was the logical way to go.

He groped his way down the unlit stairwell. _So far, so—_

A gurgle arose in his throat as he was seized from behind, and panic set in.

"So, Jimmy; our paths cross again." Zelig; his voice a sinister purr. "You must know where they are hiding Tim McGee. In Autopsy, is it? You'll take me to him."

Again, there was that knife; shining in the beam of Zelig's flashlight. "I...err...I don't know where Agent McGee is," he said, truthfully, and was glad that he didn't know.

"Of course you know!" Zelig roared. "You're on the medical staff! You're treating him!" He calmed, then. "They're not letting much of anyone get into Autopsy, Jimmy. But you can get me in. I'm the head of Intel. My security clearance is supposed to let me in everywhere."

"I—I don't think—"

"Do it _now_! Don't waste my time!"

"No! I—I'm sorry, Mr. Zelig, but if they won't let you into Autopsy, there must be a reason. And I—I just work here. I don't have the authority—"

"Oh, show some initiative, you young fool! Get me in to see McGee, and I _might_ spare your life!"

"M—might?" Jimmy backed up a little._ "HELP!"_ he screamed suddenly. _"HELP!!"_

"Oh, for—" Zelig hesitated no longer, and lunged with the knife, ending Jimmy's screams.

"Freeze, Zelig, you SOB!" came Tony's voice from the next floor up. Other footsteps could be heard, running.

"Back away, DiNozzo, or I'll finish him off," Zelig taunted. "You're not stopping me."

"No, but I will," said Ziva, appearing on the landing below. As Zelig turned toward her, knife upraised, she shot him. It only took one shot.

"Palmer!" Tony gasped, and jumped down the last steps to where the young man lay. "Get Ducky!" he ordered, and Ziva ran off. _Oh, did I make a wrong choice…_


	20. December 26, 3 am

_**Chapter Twenty – December 26, 3 a.m.**_

"This is incredible. Never has there been anything like this at NCIS. In my 29 years here, I've never seen anything like this," Earl Conklin sputtered.

"I'll take your word for it," Jenny murmured. It was an emergency meeting in her office; hastily convened by Tony. Of course Jenny and Gibbs had to be woken. The death of the head of Intel, brought down forcibly by NCIS, after having attempted the murder of an employee…that would be crisis enough, were it not also for the fact that signs seemed to point to Zelig having worked with the enemy.

They met in Jenny's outer office, with the door closed; Jenny's excuse was that it would be faster for Cynthia to get to them, when she came up. They were still not telling Conklin where Tim was. Or where Gibbs slept, for that matter. "At least that much is over," said Tony. "Now we know where our inner problems came from. Did Zelig personally recruit Faith Underhill?"

Cynthia poked her head in the door. "Excuse me, Director? Sirs? Nurse Freestate says Jimmy Palmer is still being attended to by Dr. Mallard. No prognosis yet."

They all looked pained. "Thank you, Cynthia. Please keep Command informed," said Jenny.

"Yes, Director." Cynthia went back to Autopsy to wait.

"Yes on Underhill," Jenny's attention returned to the group. "At least, I think he did. We'll have to wait until we have computer systems again to know for sure."

"And when we have computers again, we'll do a thorough background check on Zelig," said Gibbs. "My gut tells me he wasn't who he said he was."

"False identity?" asked Tony. "How could he get through the hiring process?"

"There are all sorts of way," Gibbs grimaced. "We're tighter now than we were back then. When did he join the agency, Jen? 2000?"

"I don't remember." Jen mentally cursed, for the 100th time, the lack of computer power. "Well, all right, then, Earl; you've got control. Jethro and I both need more sleep, though I don't think sleep will come easily. Tony?"

"I'm going to wander a bit before I turn in."

"Don't stay up too long. Earl, do you want to work from here, or from your own office?"

"From my office. I know where everything is in there. Will you put a sign on your door directing people to MTAC?"

"I'll do that. Keep the MTAC door open, would you? People find it intimidating, and we don't want them to be afraid to find you. See you later, Earl, and I hope you have a peaceful shift."

"It can't get much worse than what DiNozzo went through," Conklin said wryly, and walked out.

The other three lingered after he left. "You're taking a big risk, Jen," said Gibbs, fighting a yawn. "If I didn't really need the sleep, I'd stay up and shadow him."

"I know," Jen frowned. "But his responses to this were all good. I'm hoping that Zelig was our only double agent, and we've just been paranoid. Earl has given us _so_ many years of good service. I can't disregard that."

"I hope you're right," said Tony.

- - - - -

Tony knew he needed to stay up another hour before turning in. This was unspoken between him and Gibbs. One more hour and either Gibbs or Jenny would be up. Conklin was _probably_ an okay guy after all, but with the earlier suspicion that had hung over him for the last few weeks, they couldn't afford to take the chance. It was just a precaution.

He went down the central stairs to the squad room, where the dozen-or-so awake agents were chattering in a low hum. His intent had been just to amble through, but the agents ambushed him.

"Tony! What the hell's going on?" "Is it true about Zelig?" "Did he flip out, or something?" "Did he kill someone?" "Why won't management tell us what's happening?" "Come on, Tony; give us some answers!"

Tony paused, organizing his thoughts, deciding what he should and should not say now. "Zelig is dead. He attacked Jimmy Palmer, for reasons unclear just yet. Ziva shot Zelig in self-defense. Palmer was stabbed, and Ducky's treating him. That's about it."

"That's just so bizarre! Zelig was what; number three here at HQ? Why would he do something like that?" "I always thought he was a nice guy." "Who's going to take over Intel?"

_They're thinking that Zelig acted alone, for his own reasons. Well, that's certainly less scary than having him be a double-agent. Not my place to enlighten them._ "I don't have any answers for you, sorry," Tony said. "Maybe we'll know more later today." He moved on; heading down the stairs to the front entrance. Just some place to take his feet.

_Oh, the pain of management._ Tony would have loved to have stayed there in the squad room, shooting the breeze with his fellow agents, until his hour was up. But he was afraid of letting something slip in conversation. He couldn't be himself, speculating on what "the brass" might be up to. He trusted his fellow agents—he had to—but knowing that loose lips did indeed sink ships, as the old saying went, he didn't dare say too much. It was easier just to stay away from the conversation. _I wonder if this is why Gibbs disappears sometimes from the squad room._

He nodded to the Marine guards at the entrance as he came down the stairs. A thought occurred to him, and he stopped. "Who was the last person in, and the last person out?" he asked.

One of the guards checked the log (hastily made, about 24 hours ago, in a spiral notebook). "Agent Wanda Morton was the last out, sir. Two minutes ago. She's in and out a lot."

"Strong nicotine habit," Tony nodded. "Stress makes it worse. And in?"

"Um…Mr. Conklin, sir. Came in forty minutes ago."

_Interesting. What was Conklin doing out at this hour? He's not a smoker._ "When did he go out?"

"Ten minutes before that, sir."

Tony said his thanks and walked on. This was a puzzle he'd pass on to Gibbs when Gibbs woke up.

At the gym, Tony entered the "men's dorm" side and looked in. A few dozen cots lined this half of the gym (a fair distance, and a 6-foot-high curtain wall separating the men's and women's sides, for a little privacy). A tall candle—one of the few on hand at NCIS—burned on a table. No one was awake, and snores of varying volumes rose. All seemed well. Tony moved on.

He took the other, farther, stairs down to Autopsy. The closer stairs were closed off with yellow _caution_ tape, which, while not entirely appropriate, was what was on hand. Just as well; Tony didn't have the stomach to go through there again so soon if he didn't have to.

Cynthia was sitting in the makeshift "waiting room"; _knitting_, of all things. She looked up at Tony and smiled. "Yes, one of my secret lives is a knitter. There's not enough light to read by, but you don't need much for knitting. The fingers know what to do."

"But don't you ever make a mistake with a, a, knitting action?"

"Like drop a stitch? Of course. I'll catch the mistakes later, when there's more light. But for now, this gives me something to do."

"How's Palmer? Is he going to need blood? I can round up donors in a flash. I'll haul them out of bed, if need be."

Worry crossed her face. "I don't know. I've been wondering that, too. And I want to donate as well, if needed."

Nurse Freestate came out to the waiting room, mopping her brow, and then stopping to wash her hands in the sink. "How're y'all doing?" she asked, smiling. "Problem, Agent DiNozzo?"

"No, just checking up on Jimmy Palmer. Is he going to need blood?"

She sobered then. "Would he benefit from it? Dr. Mallard thinks so. But we're not looking for donors yet. We'd have to transfuse whole blood, which is possible, but hardly the desired technique any more. And we can't test blood types, nor check the computers to see what types are on file for everyone. We don't even know Mr. Palmer's blood type. The best we can do at the moment is _autotranfusion_—returning as much of Mr. Palmer's blood to him as we can. We hope that will be enough."

Cynthia frowned. "Is _everything_ on computer? I thought Ducky kept a lot of paper files, still."

"If he does, I don't know where. I could ask him." She went back into the main room.

A few minutes later, Ducky came in. "Well, young Palmer is stable, for the moment," he said, but the cheer in his voice didn't match his face. "Dreadful thing, this. Why pick on an innocent soul like Jimmy? He'd never hurt a fly."

"I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," said Tony, though he knew there was more to it than that. "A chest wound, was it?"

"Yes. Missed the major organs, fortunately. And that devil Zelig only got time for one blow, thanks to you and Ziva and the others, I hear." Ducky actually trembled then. "Thank you, Tony. I wouldn't have wanted to train another assistant," he said with a shake in his voice.

Tony waved this away and changed the subject. "With Palmer out of action now, are you going to need more help for the new casualties? We can scrounge around the Marine compound; they may have a medical corpsman they can spare."

"Yes…yes, thank you, Tony. Anyone at all with a little medical training, like a corpsman or an EMT, would be outstanding. In a pinch, I'll even take someone without training who doesn't flinch at the sight of blood and can handle instruments."

"I'll get on it." _A 3:30 a.m. walk over to the Marine compound; why not? This place is pretty quiet, and the fresh air might clear my head. I'm tempted to throw a rock through the gym window and air that place out. Gack._

"Dr. Mallard, we were talking to Nurse Freestate about transfusions," Cynthia said. "Don't you have paper records of all the employees' blood types and medical histories?"

Ducky brightened. "Yes, now that you mention it! It's only the sketchiest of information. Essentially the initial physical at hire. That has all the blood type information. Subsequent annual physicals are on the computer. But we never broke the habit of making the hire record a paper one—or, in recent years, making a paper copy of the computer record, and filing it."

"If you want blood type information, on Jimmy Palmer and everyone else, I'll be happy to look it up."

"They are in the filing cabinet in my office. If you want to take on that Herculean task, my dear, I shall be ever grateful."

"Records are my life," said Cynthia, grinning. "Point me to them."

- - - - -

Tony signed out at the front door and zipped up his coat. It had dropped below freezing, and some of the surfaces were coated with rime. In the near-total dark, he strolled the few short blocks to the Marines compound. Other than the dull rumble of fighting at the O Street gate, all was quiet in this direction. He noticed the four Marine guards at the breech in the wall; they were nearly two blocks away and didn't notice him. He encountered no one on his route.

The upgraded security measures at the back entrance pleased him. He showed his IDs, and answered correctly the question of who won the 2000 World Series (the Yankees, 4 games to 1 over the Mets), and grinned at the old "American test". Not everyone would pass it, of course. Maybe it made the guards feel more secure.

"Is Major Stallings up?" Tony asked. "I'd like to speak with him."

"The Major never sleeps, sir, as far as any of us know," said one of the guards with a straight face. "It is not in his orders to have any sleep time, sir. Villanueva, escort Agent DiNozzo to the Major's office."

"Aye, sir."

Vic Stallings was up, although his boots were off and he looked tired. "Tony, my man! Good to see you, if only by candlelight."

"Your people think you never sleep. That must make you one of the undead."

"Don't ask me what I feel like. And I wouldn't mind a little blood feast, I think. The iron would give me a little more energy. Now what brings you out at this hour?"

Tony gave him the briefest summary of Zelig's attack on Palmer, ending with, "so we were wondering if you had any spare medical corpsmen just lying around with nothing to do."

Vic smiled only briefly, still absorbing the shock of the news of the attack. "Zelig. I can't believe it. Do you think he was working with the enemy?"

_Dang Vic's sharp mind._ "We just don't know," Tony said, keeping his face in line. He considered Vic a friend, an equal. He so wanted to unburden himself to Vic, but discipline kept him from doing so. _If I can't discuss it with Ziva, my partner, I certainly can't discuss it with Vic. Dang it._

"As for your request, hmmm…we're in pretty good shape, medically. Sure, we'll help out. I can loan you Corporal Boyd, Jerry Boyd. His nickname is 'Mocking' Boyd, because he's something of a mimic and a clown, too. But he was an EMT before joining the Corps. He should be just what you need." He opened the door. "Wellman," he said to one of the guards at his door, "send for Corporal Boyd."

- - - - -

Within minutes, Tony and Boyd were on their way to NCIS. Boyd was still a little groggy from being woken up, and so didn't say much, other than to deliver a retreaded joke:

_What's the difference between a dead enemy in the road, and a dead snake in the road?  
__The snake has skid marks in front of it!_

Tony signed back in at the NCIS building; Boyd was given a visitor's badge after a small amount of routine questioning (the brevity of which bothered Tony until he realized that the Marine guards here knew him). Tony took Boyd down to Autopsy where Ducky and Nurse Freestate gleefully took him in.

Then Tony went back up to the third floor, to do one last, stealthy check on things and to see if either Gibbs or Jenny was up. Then he could look forward to four hours of uninterrupted sleep, if everything went well.

He entered Jenny's outer office. Gibbs was there, drinking water. "DiNozzo. I just got up. How are things?"

Tony told him of his activities, and watched Gibbs' face darken when he told of leaving for the Marines' compound. "Oh. I shouldn't have left while Conklin was in charge and you and the Director were asleep."

"Got it in one," Gibbs snapped. "If you'd waited half an hour, the Director and I would have been up, and I could have gone to the Marines. Jenny could have watched Conklin."

"Sorry. You're right, boss."

"Well, nothing seems to have happened in the time you were gone. And it'll probably prove to be a blessing that Ducky gets the additional staff. You look like you're about to drop. Go to sleep."

"I still have 15 minutes on shift—"

"Go. I can handle it."

So Tony left, heading for his cot in a small third floor room. But he was troubled. _I let our guard down. Gibbs trusted me to keep an eye on Conklin, I gave into an impulse and went to solve the medical assistant problem because I felt guilty about not having escorted Palmer back to the gym, as I should have. Who knows what Conklin did while I was outside?_ He shivered.


	21. December 26, 4 am

_**Chapter 21 -- December 26, 4 a.m.**_

Jenny's "bed" for the crisis was actually a sofa in her private bathroom, just off her office. When she had taken the post of NCIS Director, she'd been surprised to find that her bathroom included a shower stall and, in its entry room, a coffee table and two arms chairs. _The perks of office…_ She'd removed the table and armchairs and in their place had put in a small sofa. It was long enough so that she could stretch out on it.

Only Gibbs and Cynthia knew this was where she slept. Tony, Jenny thought, was probably inquisitive enough to wonder, but sensible enough not to ask. She smiled wryly to herself as she pulled on her camo pants and the shirt she'd worn just three days ago, still reasonably fresh. Too bad blue didn't really go with the woodland camo colors. Oh well; this was not a fashion show. In her sink she rinsed out her spare camo slacks and the sweater from yesterday, and hung them up to drip dry. Then she did the same with a shirt and pants of Cynthia's. _I suppose we should be thankful that this e-bomb was a small one. One detonated in the atmosphere over the Midwest or the Plains states could have affected most of the country, and created havoc for decades. At least that's what I remember from that conference in Sydney that I went to last year…But what if the terrorists have done this to other US cities, and in larger ways? The country, and maybe other countries, could be helpless already. We just don't know._

Interesting as this mental discussion was, it wasn't at all helpful in the here and now. She pushed it aside and made a mental list (something she'd gotten quite good at) of what she wanted to accomplish before her next sleep cycle:

_Visit all our wounded personnel; tell them I care. (And I do care.)  
See if the Intel staff has made any progress in identifying the enemy uniform.  
Check on our non-agents (Intel, MTAC, Abby, Ducky) and make sure they're holding up.  
Do we have any alternative light supplies? Is there anything we can fashion? Ask our science experts (Abby, Tim…who else?).  
Send someone to the rooftop to scan toward the Capitol…see if we can detect any change.  
Talk with Stallings of the Marine compound and Townsend of the Navy. Away from here, without Conklin present._

There was one thing she'd been tempted to add to the list, but squashed every time her mind brought it up. But maybe it was finally getting to the worth-considering point: _Send scouts out to the edge of the blackout, to come back with a report and maybe aid. Or at least more candles and food._

Trouble was, it could very well be a suicide mission. She wasn't about to ask for volunteers with so much danger and so little likelihood of success. No, they weren't that desperate yet. God willing, it would never come to that point.

Now ready for the day, she unlocked the bathroom door and went out; her stocking feet making no sound on the carpet. Her inner office was dark and quiet, except…

_Someone's in here with me._

"Hello? Who is it?" she called boldly, and struggled with relighting the candle she carried.

"Just me, Jenny. Earl." The big man's ruddy face sprang into view as the candlewick took flame.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral and mild.

"I ran out of paper. I thought I might borrow some from you, if that's okay. A lined pad would be fine," Conklin said.

"No problem. I know where I have a spare," she smiled, a bit tightly. "Funny, isn't it? We're so used to using computers now that these pads seem like relics from another era."

His smile was wry. "I'm a good deal older than you, Jenny. For me, computers are still the new-fangled TV-typewriter things. I'll always be more comfortable with a legal pad and a pen than I will be with a computer."

"But aren't you part of an online fantasy baseball league?" Despite her worries, she grinned.

"That's different," he said with a laugh. "Don't ask me why. It just is. Thanks for the pad."

He turned to go. She'd relaxed; forgotten about her surroundings, forgotten about her suspicions. All was seemingly well…

…until a cough came from the next room; the little room where Gibbs and Tim slept.

"What was that?" Conklin said, turning and trying to locate the sound.

Her brain seized on the first name that came to mind. "Tony," she said. "I told him he could sleep in that little room if he didn't feel like trudging to his own cot…let me just see if he needs anything." Quickly she strode into the little room, and closed the door behind her softly. Gibbs was not there, and whatever had tickled Tim's throat had passed, for he was now back asleep, breathing quietly.

She made a face when she came out, closing the door again. "I wish the agents would warn me if they're going to sleep in the nude," she said, as a way of throwing Conklin off. "He seems to be okay, though. He's back asleep."

"Odd that he can't make it to his own cot, though. I thought I saw him coming out of room 310 last night. That's just down the hall!" Conklin shook his balding head.

Jenny shrugged. "Anyway, I think now that I'm up, I'm going to wander the building and see how things are."

"Okay. I'll head back for MTAC. All's been quiet so far."

Jenny had just let out a breath when Conklin turned his head back. "Oh, I've been meaning to ask: where did they move McGee to? I'd still like to talk to him."

"He's still in isolation," Jenny said, meeting his eyes but feeling her heart pound. "They're trying to keep him quiet."

"He's…not in danger of…dying, is he?"

"Lord! No, I don't think so. I hope not. It's mostly a precaution."

"Then, for the good of the agency, it shouldn't hurt him if I talked to him."

"Oh, must you, Earl? He's been through a lot." _There must be a way out of this. Give me inspiration, please!_

"Jenny, he knew when he signed on that his job carried risks. I'm sure he'd be willing to do his bit. And…" he puffed himself up a bit. "…I _am_ the acting head of NCIS for the moment. If I want to see him, I can."

_No! _"Earl, let him sleep. Wait until dawn, at least. An injured person needs to keep on a circadian rhythm to heal faster." _I have no idea if that's true, but I doubt he knows, either._

"I suppose you're right. I'd better get back to MTAC now. See you later."

When Conklin had finally, surely, left this time, Jenny sank to the floor, weeping softly. Whether Conklin really meant trouble for Tim or not, he was certainly frightening her.

_There have been too many deaths in our family already. I can't let Conklin get access to Tim. I don't even feel comfortable leaving him. But what can I do?_

- - - - -

Gibbs was already walking the building. He found five of the Intel people seated in a cluster around a candle in a third floor hallway, talking quietly.

"Wouldn't you rather be asleep?" he said to them, on approach.

"Oh! Agent Gibbs!" one said as they all were startled. "We just—"

"We couldn't sleep, Gibbs," said another. "Charles. We still can't believe it!"

"He was such a nice guy! He'd never hurt anyone. There must have been a horrible mistake."

Gibbs hadn't known the extent of Zelig's people's devotion to him. They must be in shock. "We don't have any answers yet," he said carefully. "We may never know, in fact." _Time to change the subject_. "Why are you all sitting out here, in the middle of the night? We have unused conference rooms if you want to talk."

"It's because of me, Agent Gibbs," said one woman, shyly. "I'm a bit claustrophobic. I can't sleep in those rooms in the dark. I need at least a window nearby…and they won't let us sleep in the squad room…"

"We don't let the agents sleep in there, either," Gibbs said kindly. "It has to remain a working area, which could get noisy at any moment." _When you work with agents all day long, it's easy to forget that other people have fears that you might not tolerate in an agent. But they might have strengths an agent doesn't, too._

"I understand. It's just that it has those nice, big windows…anyway, George and Lil and Francois and Matt said they'd keep me company if I wanted to sit up."

"Were you able to find out anything about the enemy soldier from his uniform?" Gibbs asked after a little pause.

They all perked up. "Yes! Let me get my notes," said George. He ran into a nearby room, and was back quickly.

"We went over all the paper copies of records of uniforms we had on file," said the other woman. "They go back to the mid 19th century. Though, of course, this uniform is much more modern."

"We didn't find an _exact_ match, but…"

"We determined it doesn't come from any one country. Rather, it's worn by a melting pot of ideologies that are working for the destruction of Western-style democracy."

"What's the name?"

"Well, that depends. Speakers of at least fifteen different languages belong to the group, which stretches from Africa to the Near East to Asia. Each calls it by a name in its own language. This is a new coalition, understand. Just identified about, oh, 16 months ago."

"So it doesn't have a single name?" Gibbs ran his hand through his hair; frustrated.

"Oh, yes. In English it translates to one thing," said George. He hesitated. "It's…'The Final Destruction of the West'."

- - - - -

Abby lay in dreamless sleep on her futon in the women's dorm. She'd voluntarily given up her candle, which meant sleeping in her lab impractical. Besides, it was getting cold down there.

She awoke suddenly, without knowing why. All around her women slept, some snoring. It was comforting to be around so much woman-power.

_Tim._ That was woke her. Something about Tim. She felt a chill seep through her, and she knew, she just knew, that he was in trouble. _Hang on, Timmy; I'm coming!_ Stepping into her boots, she tiptoed out, while not knowing where she should go or what she could do


	22. December 26, 5 am

_**Chapter 22: December 26, 5 a.m.**_

Gibbs needed to think; alone and away from everyone else. He entered room 302, a windowless conference room slightly across from Jenny's office, but closer to the central stairs. Leaving the door ajar, he sat on the floor in the shadows. He would be able to see people going by, but no one would be able to see him, unless they entered the room or shone a beam directly on him.

If Life was kinder to him, he could be grabbing more sleep now, and be looking out for McGee at the same time. _What the heck is it that McGee knows about Zelig that made Zelig want to kill him? Why can't McGee remember?_

Maybe with Zelig's death it was all over now. Gibbs devoutly hoped so. There was too much else going on. It might take weeks, _months_ even, before they could determine why he went off—or who he was really working for. Gibbs massaged his scalp in frustration. _Computers. We needed computers. I'd settle for a working phone, if I could call, say, Glynco and get them to use their computers. Do a top-to-bottom search of Zelig's background; find out who this guy really was. _

_How long was Zelig working for one of our enemies? A month? A year? Since his hiring?_

_Are there any other traitors among us? I don't think Conklin really is…he's acting no differently than he ever does. But I'm not 100 per cent sure of him. I hope we'll be able to pronounce him clear when this thing is over. He's contributed a lot to NCIS over the years._

_No doubt there will be a thorough probe of everyone, and strangely enough, I'm in favor of it. If there are any more bad apples, we need to know._

_And we will find this out. Once this is all over._

_Unless we lose._

_No. I refuse to believe that we won't win. We will..._

Ducky turned to his new assistant, who was cleaning instruments and putting them away. "Good work, Corporal Boyd."

The young man wiped his brow and grinned. "Call me 'Jerry', Doc. Everyone does, except the brass. That's the worst thing about being in the service. You're expected to give up your first name. No, I take that back. That's the second worse thing."

"What's the worst thing, then?"

"Not enough girls around."

Ducky laughed. Boyd was a breath of fresh air, and nothing like Palmer. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with Palmer, he was just…well, kind of tepid in nature compared to Boyd. Clumsy, socially; not sure of himself. Boyd would be enjoyable to work with. Maybe he could be convinced to join NCIS when his Marine stint was over…

_Now why am I thinking that, while poor Palmer is still in grave condition?_ He shuddered. "Well then, Jerry; come with me while I make the rounds of the injured who are convalescing outside Autopsy. Nurse Freestate is up and can, ah, hold down the fort."

After briefly visiting three of the patients on the second floor, Ducky and Boyd headed for the third floor. "Timothy McGee is the next on our list, Jerry. Wound to upper leg, sustained from the _Barry_ explosion."

"Ah, the boat boy. Did a Tom Sawyer raft ride across the Anacostia," Boyd grinned.

"That's the one. "He's up here in, uh…" Words suddenly caught in his throat. He remembered Tim was being hidden for his own protection, though he didn't know who was suspected of chasing him. Although he felt he could trust Boyd, he knew this wasn't his decision to make.

"On second thought, Jerry, let's let Timothy sleep awhile longer. He's, ah, had a hard time sleeping, and if he's finally down…"

"Okay, Doc. You're the doc," Jerry said, shrugging. "Who's next?"

Abby gave a cheery wave to the front door guards as she approached the great staircase to the second floor. She had always liked to extend a little extra friendliness to people with the more boring, but necessary, jobs. The guards smiled at her, though they couldn't be said to know her. And she looked less appealing than ever, she thought, since she'd exchanged her short shirt and thin sweater for a borrowed pair of sweat pants and a sweatshirt (_in _blue! _When do I ever wear_ blue!). The things one must go through just to stay _warm_.

Up the stairs, and into the squad room. Abby waved and nodded to the people she knew, yet there were so many CRFO people that were only faces, without names she could attach. Under better circumstances, she'd find time to get to know them. Under better circumstances, however, these people whose home base was in Georgia wouldn't be here at all.

_And wouldn't have died, like that sweet, motherly, agent Rhonda Schofield. _

She climbed the central staircase to the third floor, stumbling just a little in the dimness; trying to shake off the sleepiness she still felt. Sleepiness and apprehension…the latter regarding Tim. _What's wrong? Why can't I figure it out?_

Just steps before she would have reached Jenny's office, a hand came over her mouth from behind, and another hand pulled her backwards into a room across the hall. The pulling hand let go long enough to close the door behind them, very quietly.

"Gibbs!" she cried with a soft shriek. "Why—"

"Hush, Abbs. I don't care why you were up, but I do care about where you were going. Was it to see McGee?"

"Yes, Gibbs, but what does that have to do with—"

"Abby. You can't see McGee now. Go back downstairs and go to bed."

"Is he sick? I mean, worse sick? Gibbs, tell me the truth!"

"No; he's unchanged. Abby, I know we said you could visit McGee. But not now. If you go into the Director's office, you risk giving away McGee's location. Only a few people know where he is. This is for his protection."

"His protection! Protection from what? From whom?"

"I can't tell you now. And you can't see him for at least…" _When does Conklin's shift end?_ "…two hours. Go back downstairs, Abby. That's an order."

That got her back up. "Since when are you my boss, Gibbs? I report directly to the Director."

He stared her down, and she could feel the coldness flow off him. "My duty," he said in a flint-edged voice, "is to take care of my team. I won't allow one of your silly romantic or whatever whims put McGee in danger."

"_Romantic!"_ she sputtered. 

"Well, whatever. And I don't really want to know. You two have one of the world's most complicated relationships."

"Gibbs, I—"

"Abby, if you love McGee—or even just like him—for the sake of keeping him alive, go. Go now. Don't turn back. You'll get to see him later, I promise."

"But, Gibbs—"

He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, and she relented, against her better judgment. She left the room, emotions warring inside her. Turning, she watched Gibbs go out, heading down the central staircase. After a moment she started to follow him, but stopped, the inside of her mouth still tasting bitter. Instead she went the other way, heading for the staircase toward the back of the building.

Passing MTAC's outer office, she noticed that the door was open, curiously. She'd never seen that before. Usually one had to go through various motions to be admitted. But there it was. Peeking in, she saw Earl Conklin sitting at his desk, writing something by the light of his little candle.

He glanced up. (_Are my boots that loud?_ Abby wondered.) "Ms. Sciuto. Were you looking for me? Or someone in management? What can I do for you?"

Abby didn't know him well. Their paths rarely crossed: MTAC looked at the big picture, whereas Abby's job was more case-specific. Still, she rather liked the older man, in sort of an uncle-way. "No, nothing, Mr. Conklin. I, uh, I was just concerned about Tim. Tim McGee? And I came up to see how he was doing."

"Oh?"

"Yes, but I ran into Gibbs and he said not to bother Tim just yet. He said that Tim might be in danger if people knew where he was."

"Yes…yes, that's true."

"So I didn't see Tim, and I'm going to go back to bed. Are you in charge of NCIS right now, Mr. Conklin?"

"Yes, this is my shift."

"So if I, I really felt it was important to see Tim right now, you could overrule Gibbs, and say it was okay?"

He looked thoughtful. "I would have the authority, but—"

"I really, really need to see Tim, Mr. Conklin! I have a feeling that something's very wrong! I'm scared for him!"

"Very well, Ms. Sciuto. Now you've got me concerned. Lead on; we'll both go see him."


	23. December 26, 6 am

_**Chapter 23: December 26, 6 a.m.**_

"He's down here," Abby said to Earl Conklin as she and the MTAC head walked along the dimly-lit third floor corridor. He was a big man: nearly 6'4" and well over 200 pounds. She had heard that he had been a football standout in college, decades ago. After that? She wasn't sure where his career had taken him. Had he been in the military service? Many people in the upper ranks had. Was he wearing a bullet-proof vest, a flighty thought in her mind wondered. Or did he have enough natural padding? _Stop it, Abby; that's not very nice._

"The Director's office," said Conklin, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Well, well, well…"

"Well…yes. But you knew that. You must have known it. I mean, everyone in the know, which naturally includes you and Charles Zelig, and not just grunts like me, knows where Tim is…right? He's hidden only to protect him from the guys who want to harm him."

"_Abby!!"_

Both Abby and Conklin were startled by the cry. Conklin held out his candle, and the modest light revealed Jenny, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center of her office. She looked shocked—beyond shocked.

"Oh, Director!" Abby didn't comment on Jenny's unusual position. "Mr. Conklin and I—that is, I was going to see Tim and I ran into Mr. Conklin, and he came along and—"

"_Abby!!"_ Jenny's voice now was as sharp as wire, and desperate; barely in control. Abby wondered at the fear in her eyes.

"Tim…is sleeping. And should not be disturbed." Jenny continued, and her voice shook.

"Oh, I don't want to disturb him, Director. I'm just concerned—"

"Tim…is not…here," Jenny said with desperate force. Her eyes homed in on Abby's. _How can I make her understand??_

"But I was told—" Abby stopped, blinked, and Jenny saw the light come on in them. "I don't know what I was told. I'm, uh, sorry for bothering you, Director. I'll go now."

"You don't remember where McGee is?" Conklin asked Abby.

"Uh…"

"He's…in transit, last I knew. Under medical advice," said Jenny. The tension in the air weighed down like so many g-forces.

After a minute in silence, Conklin said, "Well, another time, then." He turned and went out.

When he was gone, Jenny hurriedly closed the door. "Oh, Abby; did you know what you just did?!" she said despairingly.

Abby turned meek. "I…gather that Tim's location is more of a secret than I thought. Though I don't know why."

"There were only a few of us who knew," Jenny said, struggling to stay in control. "Myself. His team. You. Ducky and Jimmy Palmer. That's it."

"But why wouldn't Mr. Conklin—I know Tim doesn't work under him, the way he does under Charles Zelig, but is that any reason to keep a secret from the second-in-command?"

"Abby, there are a number of secrets people are keeping here. Not…everyone…is to be trusted."

"Mr. Conklin??"

"This is for your ears only, Abby, and I'm only telling you this because of the situation you've gotten us into now. Lord help us; we're going to have to move Tim, and soon." Fear turned her face pale, and it was a moment before she could speak again. "Abby, a few of us suspect that Earl Conklin is a double agent. Charles Zelig evidently was." Seeing the bewilderment on Abby's face, she added, "Zelig was killed a few hours ago. For reasons unknown, he attacked Jimmy Palmer with a knife. Ziva shot him to stop him."

"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! _Jimmy!!"_

"Jimmy is under Ducky's care right now. We're praying for him. We only know that Zelig and Conklin seemed to have taken an unnatural interest in Tim. We've been hiding him from them…and maybe from anyone else that we don't know about yet. We don't know if there are any more double agents among us."

"And I nearly led Conklin right to Tim!" Tears streamed down Abby's cheeks. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! Do you think Conklin suspects this is where he is?"

"If he doesn't, he'd be a true idiot. And we know he's not that."

"I'm sorry! What can we do?"

The door opened, and Gibbs came in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He looked at Abby, and then addressed Jenny, crouching. "I just went by MTAC. Conklin was sitting in there looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. Do you know what's up?"

Jenny quickly, quietly told him of the visit paid by Abby and Conklin, ending with, "Abby now knows our suspicions."

Gibbs looked furious. "Do you realize the danger you've put McGee in, Abby?!"

"I'm sorry, Gibbs…"

" 'Sorry' won't cut it, Abby, if Conklin kills him," Gibbs snapped, and got to his feet. "How long has DiNozzo been down?"

"Less than an hour, Jethro, don't—"

"This is a crisis, Jen. We need him. I'll be right back. Got your sig at hand?"

"Always, but—" Gibbs was already out the door.

In a few minutes he was towing a very sleepy Tony. "Time to go wake up McGee," Gibbs said grimly

* * *

After setting up a rudimentary burglar alarm (chairs leaning against the outmost door), Gibbs, Jenny Tony and Abby descended on the little room off Jenny's office in which Tim was sleeping. Gibbs woke him.

"We've got to move you, because we can't guard you 24/7. I'd want two people on that, and we don't have the manpower. Wouldn't want to chance it, either. Is Conklin an ex-agent?"

"I don't remember," said Jenny.

"If you mean, can he handle a gun, I've seen him on the firing range," said Tony. "A fair shot."

"I'm being threatened by Conklin? Why??" Tim asked. "Zelig has me a little spooked, but Conklin?? What did I ever do to _him_??"

He listened in horror as the events of the last few hours were laid out before him, barely noticing the warmth of Abby's hands holding his.

"Think, McGee," Gibbs said roughly. "Zelig, and we now think Conklin, believed that you knew something about the operation. They didn't know what specifically, so they were determined to get to you and get it out of you before you could tell anyone else."

"And then they'd kill me," Tim said with a gulp.

Abby wrapped her arms around him from behind. "The agents would never let them do that to you, Tim."

"Dang it, McGee, _THINK_!!" Gibbs thundered. "Search your mind! Somewhere there's a connection. Your work with Zelig in this last week…"

"Or with Faith Underhill?" Jenny suggested.

"Come on, Probie. Put that encyclopedia mind to work," Tony coaxed.

Tim thought and thought, as hard as he could. Wisps of thought kept breaking off. _They're not just doing this for my own safety. They're depending on me…I may have the key to ending this fight…_

Suddenly he sat up straight. "I've got it," he whispered, and then louder, _"I've got it!!"_

* * *

Ducky sat beside Jimmy's bed, watching the young man breathe. It was the most basic of actions, until the body could not do it unaided. With every breath, Ducky found himself thinking, _Yes, that's it, Jimmy; do it again. Keep going…_

_Awful business, war. Soldiers know what to expect, going in, even if they only half-believe the possibilities. And maybe the reason why we draft the young is because they think they're immortal. But civilians—they never know. They rarely expect. And it's to them that the most vile crimes are committed._

_May you burn in hell, Charles Zelig. If this young man dies, I will follow you there and hunt you down._


	24. December 26, 6:30 am

_**Chapter 24: December 26, 6:30 a.m.**_

"What is it you know, Tim?"

Tim looked up at Jenny…Gibbs…Tony…Abby. He cleared his throat. "Let's go back to the beginning. It was on the 17th that you, Director, sent out an email canceling all leave because of the crisis, the enemy chatter. Within hours we'd all been given new assignments, including me to Intel. Non-agents, other than crucial Intel and MTAC people, were offered admin leave. Our normal case work was all shunted off to other field offices.

"This was the first real time I'd worked with Intel, despite a couple of chances at it in the past. I didn't know the names of anyone there, going in. I knew who Zelig was, though; he once offered me a job there. I didn't take it because I liked being a special agent more. Anyway…

"So I got to meet all the Intel crew, and they were pretty nice. And right from the first day Zelig assigns me to work with Faith. Didn't ask me what my talents or preferences were. At the time, I just accepted it as being the necessity of a crisis situation.

"Now, Faith was a very intelligent person. She knew a number of languages, and was good at seeing patterns. She was a natural for Intel. Or so I thought, at first. Then as we got closer to the 24th, I was starting to think, ever so vaguely, that something was wrong. Faith knew Arabic, but I'd started to learn some, too, and I thought some of her translation was off. I couldn't prove it because we were moving so fast, but once when I was alone, I went back and did some spot checks on the tapes. Some of the passages that seemed to have identical wording were translated differently.

"And any time I tried to home in on a possible inaccuracy, she'd start flirting with me, and well...I'd kind of lose my train of thought." He blushed. Tony only smiled and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Go on," Jenny said, her look solemn.

"Well, Zelig often seemed to pull me away at moments when Faith and I were getting somewhere. By that I mean sending me to MTAC to do something, or calling me into Intel to install something on a computer. That seemed unnecessary; all the Intel people are very computer-savvy. They have to be.

"Now and then I wondered why I had been assigned to Intel—"

"That was my decision," said Jenny. "Zelig came to me, asking for a detail of someone; someone with a quick mind who was talented with computers. I thought of you."

"Thanks, but I was thinking more of, why did they need anybody? Just as the agents weren't taking on any cases, Intel wasn't taking on any new work, either. Everyone in Intel was focused on the crisis. That should have been more than enough people.

"So either I was considered useless in the field…and I doubt I would suddenly be considered that…or else I—"

"If you're going to say you were expendable, no one here thinks that, McGee," Gibbs said suddenly.

"I know, boss. And I don't think it was me in particular. They wanted someone, anyone considered trustworthy by the agency, who they could use as a dupe. Someone who could be swayed by dubious, planted information, and then lure co-workers. It would be destruction of NCIS from the inside."

"Let me interrupt, Probie," said Tony. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that Zelig and Conklin almost seemed to get along recently? At times, anyway?"

"Yes. That was another point I'd been mulling over. Ever since Zelig came on here two years ago, he and Conklin were always at odds. If one said blue, the other said red. If one said the sun rose in the east, the other would challenge him to prove it. Yet they were united in this cause. Not because there was a common enemy; no, they just seemed to agree on too many things."

Gibbs nodded. "For one thing, they both wanted to see you, badly. They were united on that."

"It was so odd, after hearing them bicker. You would expect them to disagree on some things, even a lot of things. Like how many agents to send out to defend the gates, or how many candles to hand out. People who are used to bickering don't suddenly come into agreement with each other, totally; they will _find_ something to argue about. To me, that says that their two previous years' worth of fighting was all a ruse."

"But what if it was just Mr. Cree—Zelig?" asked Abby. "We know now he was bad. Maybe he was just trying to agree with Mr. Conklin, to not look like he was on the wrong side of an argument?"

"Unlikely," said Gibbs. "If he and Conklin were genuinely warring with each other, Conklin would have been reacting with surprise when Zelig started agreeing with him. That was where they slipped up."

"To bring this back to where we started," said Jenny, "Why did they need a dupe, Tim?"

Tim took a deep breath. "It was Faith. She, I think, was their information runner. I don't know if either Zelig or Conklin spoke Arabic, but since Faith did, she was extremely useful to them. I bet we'll find that Zelig recruited her personally. She was able to monitor the chatter and listen for coded instructions in Arabic. She could then relay them to Zelig and Conklin. Having me—or anyone, really—work with her meant that less attention would be focused on her."

"So why did she die?" asked Tony. "She lured you out to the _Barry_—why?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet. I'm leaning toward saying that she'd outlived her usefulness. Maybe she was expecting some reward, or safe passage out of the Yard. Maybe she thought money would be waiting for her on the _Barry_—Zelig or Conklin might have told her that."

Jenny said, "And she'd told you this story about terrorists hiding out on either the _Barry_ or in the Navy Museum. Why do you think she did that?"

"Well, I have a theory there. She knew that some of the enemy had been smuggled into the Yard at sometime, probably right around the 17th. They would be hiding in some closed-down places, like the Museum or the _Barry_."

"But—she _told_ you that! Why would she do that, if she knew it was true?" Tony demanded.

"Leaking a little information to support one's case can be useful in convincing someone," said Jenny.

Abby was struggling to process all this information that was new to her, as one who hadn't been kept in-the-know. "But wasn't she taking a big risk? Wouldn't she think that you might instead report on her suspicions, to, say, Gibbs or the Director? Someone other than Mr. Cree—". She shut her mouth.

"Who is 'Mr. Cree', Abby?" asked Jenny.

"If she's calling Zelig a creep, I'd go along with that," said Tony, giving Abby a wink.

Gibbs rolled his eyes briefly. "Yes, she was taking a risk. Spies do that a lot. No doubt she also relied on sex appeal to get McGee to go along with her—" He smirked at Tim's blush.

"But McGee, why did she choose the _Barry_, d'you think? You've said you would have preferred going to the Navy Museum."

"Assuming, Tony, she knew that the enemy was really hiding out in the Museum, she wouldn't want to give that away. As I said, I'm guessing she thought there was something on the _Barry_ for her, and she was going to get it."

"And she was likely then going to dispose of you," Jenny said gravely. "She couldn't leave a witness behind. Both of you would have to disappear."

Tim nodded. "I think she was surprised to find that the _Barry_ always has a watchman; someone on board."

"It has ever since some teenagers broke into the Yard about 15 years ago and painted peace signs on it," said Gibbs.

"So when Petty Officer Levitz showed up, Faith was flummoxed. She didn't expect him. All she could do was repeat that the enemy was on the ship."Tim said, with a sigh. He thought briefly of how attractive she'd seemed when he first met her.

"Did you get the impression that she knew about the bomb on board?" asked Gibbs.

"No. I don't think so."

"Can you guess who set it off?" asked Tony.

Tim put his face in his hands, feeling exhausted. The shock of the incident was also too fresh. _Was it really just over 24 hours ago??_ "I don't know," he said, his voice muffled. "That part I can't figure out." He felt gentle hands on his shoulders—Abby's—and he raised his head and returned her smile, though his was tired.

"My money's on Zelig or Conklin, or one of their rats," said Tony. He told them of having learned of Conklin's mysterious walk outside just after Zelig's death. "He may have been signaling to someone. If he went out a few hours ago, maybe there were other odd times he went out."

"Same with Zelig," Gibbs nodded. "I'll go over the entry/exit logs."

"I wish we could be everywhere," Jenny sighed. "There aren't enough of us. We need more eyes."

"Use me, Director!" Abby said eagerly, raising her hand.

"Thanks, Abby, but that's impossible. You're not an agent."

"So? These are extraordinary times! I'm wearing a bullet-proof vest. I don't have to carry a gun if you don't want me to—"

"We don't," said Gibbs, wryly, ignoring Jenny's critical look.

"—but I do have eyes, and can go around, looking for developments. And no one will suspect me, 'cuz I'm not an agent!" They all still looked dubious, and Tim patted her hand, kindly.

"Come on!" she said. "Take me seriously! I know I screwed up earlier with Mr. Conklin, almost leading him to Tim, but that was only because I didn't know that he didn't know! And yes, I should have listened to Gibbs. I'm sorry about that. Let me make it up to you!"

They still said nothing. After a moment, she said, "I'm willing to risk it. If we don't do something soon to turn this in our favor, we'll all soon be dead, anyway."

Jenny spoke. "All right, Abby. You're in. You're one of us."

This caused the others to smile a little, but they sobered again when Jenny added, "I know you know how to fire a gun, Abby. You've done so many times in ballistics testing. So I want you to carry one, too, for your own protection. Keep it hidden on you. You don't want someone grabbing it and using it against you."

Abby thought about asking for a badge as well, but decided not to press her luck.

"Director, I can be a set of eyes," said Tim. "Let me be useful, please."

"I wish I could, Tim, but not while Conklin still may be out to get you. Speaking of which, we need a new hiding place for you."

"How about your private bathroom?" said Gibbs.

"Yes, that will do. Tim is too tall for the sofa I sleep on in there; we'll swap the sofa with a cot. Earl won't go into my bathroom. He's too much an old-fashioned gentleman for that."

"There's one more possibility for eyes, and I wish we'd brought her in from the start," said Tony. "Ziva."

Gibbs nodded. "She's earned it, Jen."

"She has. Tony, go get her and bring her up here. Tim, do you want your cot moved into the bathroom so you can get some sleep?"

Tim took on a look of stubbornness that made Abby instinctively wrap her arms around him, feeling so loving toward him right then. "No, thanks, Director. I've done more than my share of sleeping. I intend to stay up, and work through our discussion with Ziva. This may be the time when everyone's opinion and bits of information count."


	25. December 26, 7 am

_**

* * *

**_

Chapter 25: December 26, 7 a.m.

"What is this about? Are there new developments?" Ziva followed Tony into the little room Tim and Gibbs had been sharing, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Yes," said several of them.

"And why are we hiding like this?" Ziva looked around at the faces she knew so well, faces of friends she'd risk her life for, over and over. "It is almost like you have a grand scheme." She smiled, and then her smile faded. "You _do_ have a grand scheme."

"Ziva, this is a management meeting. You're included now," said Jenny, with a polished smile. "Welcome."

"I do not understand, Director. You…are all…management?"

"In a sense. Well, Tim is here because this is where he's been sleeping, as you know. But yes, for the duration of the emergency, we're all management. Tony's been helping out. Now we need you, too." Jenny smiled.

"Tony has been…helping out?" Ziva's eyes flicked to Tony's face.

"Yes. We've been strategizing. Even before Zelig's attack, we had suspicions about him and Conklin, and now—"

"Pardon my interruption, Director," Ziva struggled to keep her face bland, and didn't succeed. "Conklin? What suspicions?"

Gibbs briefed her. Ziva's expressions changed from interest to worry to anger.

She swiftly put Tony into a hammerlock. "You are my partner and you did not tell me??" she hissed.

"Ziva! _Let him go!"_ When Ziva didn't immediately respond, Jenny rose and slapped her. "We work together now," Jenny said in an icy voice. "No, you weren't included earlier. Maybe you should have been. Maybe not. Tony was included early on because he came to me with his suspicions on Conklin and Zelig, and we needed an additional person at the time. It's been strictly on a need-to-know basis, so get off your high horse. The survival of the people of this agency is much more important than anyone's feelings."

Ziva released Tony's arm, but with a look to his face that clearly said _this-is-not-over-yet._ "Fine," she said out loud, not looking mollified. "What happens now?"

"Conklin has to be considered extremely dangerous," said Gibbs. "Whether or not he's armed, and we should assume he is armed."

"Agreed," said Jenny. "Jethro, you were going to go get the security sign-in log?"

"Now? No, I was intending to read it at the front entrance. I wasn't going to remove it from there; people are always going in and out."

Jenny sighed. "You're right. But get to that as soon as possible. Well, then. We _suspect_ Conklin has been going outside to meet the enemy. Tony saw an entry in the log, past midnight, showing Conklin had been outside for about ten minutes."

"We should just put him in lock-up. That eliminates the danger," said Ziva.

Tony nodded. "I'm beginning to agree. We need all the advantage points we can get. Screw the legalities. Let Conklin scream. We can always apologize later, if we're wrong…which we're not," he added.

"Let's get out there," said Gibbs. "It'll be light soon. We'll need to assess the fighting situation. Abby, you _have to_ stay inside. You're a pair of eyes _in here_; got it?"

"Got it."

"Good." He studied her face, hoping that she did indeed get it, and intended to comply. "Jen, do you have assignments for us?"

"Yes. Jethro: Log. Then see what's going on outside. Tony: rooftop. Take binoculars. Look for any signs of enemy movement, or other action. Ziva: Tail Conklin. He won't suspect you; he doesn't know you're part of the management team yet. This is more important than you doing combat right now; I'll find someone to take your place out there. Abby: Go around, inside the building, and be observant. Eavesdrop. Snoop. Spy. But be careful. I'm going to count the water and the foodstuffs. I think we're running low on both. We can start on the shelter-in-place water supplies."

"And when that's gone?" Tony asked.

Jenny smiled grimly. "We'll drink tap water. Just like people used to do. Alright, let's move out. Oh, Jethro, Tony—could you please move Tim into my bathroom, before you go?"

"_What??"_ asked Ziva.

* * *

Tony and Gibbs settled Tim and his cot down in Jenny's bathroom with grunts. The cot, being a little longer than Jenny's sofa (which was now in the room the cot had been in), just fit, with an inch to spare.

"There you go, Probie," said Tony, grinning. "All the comforts of home. Running water. The can. A shower. You've got it made."

"Anything we can get you, McGee?" asked Gibbs.

Tim squinted against the very pink, very feminine room. "A can of paint. In a neutral shade," he moaned.

Gibbs snorted. "Don't get your hopes up." He left.

Tony lingered and watched the door close behind Gibbs. "McGee, the others think Conklin won't come in here. Someone said he's too much of an old-fashioned gentleman to think of entering a ladies' room. Given the situation, I don't put a lot of faith in that."

"There's an inside lock to the door, isn't there?"

"Yeah, I saw it. But you don't want to use that. You're ill, and we need to be able to check up on you, including times when you're asleep." Tony crouched down beside him. "Man, Tim, I don't mind telling you that I wish you were better. We could really use your help out there."

Tim saw no guile in Tony's face. He meant what he was saying. "I'm not that bad off; I shouldn't be treated like an invalid…" He snapped his fingers. "Could you get me a wheelchair?"

"A wheelchair? Are you sure you're ready for it?"

"Dang if I know. I think I would only use it for emergencies—God forbid, if the building caught on fire or something, it would be easier to get me out if I could roll part of the way—but there may be other uses, as well."

"You go out there in a wheelchair and you'd be a sitting duck for Conklin."

"Maybe…maybe not," Tim said thoughtfully. "I might have a plan…So, will you do it?

"Sure. But back on the issue of Conklin and this room…" Tony looked to the door, as if expecting someone to come in right then, and then drew a sig from inside his jacket. "For you. Keep it under your pillow. Just in case."

Tim accepted it soberly, and checked it: a standard-issue sig, loaded. "Have you been promoted to hander-out-of-firearms?"

"Shhh. No, you shouldn't have it, normally, and there's still the matter of accounting for the one you lost in the Anacostia yesterday. But I'm damned if I'm going to let you be defenseless in here."

"Tony, this isn't…this is _your_ sig, isn't it? And you're still without the spare you damaged two weeks ago?"

"Go to sleep. If you're not sleeping, Santa can't bring you a wheelchair."

"_Tony!!"_ But Tony was gone, and Tim felt frightened about sending his partner out there, weaponless.

* * *

Abby started strolling through the building, trying to look casual. _Eyes open, ears open…_ She was determined to make up for her near-fatal slip-up with Tim. _I never, ever, would have suspected Mr. Conklin_—for she still thought of the man who was old enough to be her father as "Mr."—_of being a double agent. Wow. I wonder if there are other double agents among us?_ She shivered.

_I'm sure Gibbs and the rest have already considered that, and would have mentioned it if they suspected that. Still…I should stay alert…_

She casually went down the central stairs to the squad room and greeted the agents hanging out there, now about 15 in number. "Hi, guys," she said. "It'll be dawn soon. A new day."

"And what will it bring?" asked one woman, with a hint of fear in her voice.

"Time," said Abby. "Time is with us." She didn't really know where this was coming from, but it must be true.

"Time!" an agent spat. "You're Abby, right?"

"Yes, I'm Abby." She didn't know him, so he must be from the CRFO contingent, and she had only met one or two of them. She put on a friendly smile.

"Well, Abby, I hear you work in forensics. So just what qualifies you to know what will likely happen in a battle zone?"

Abby flushed, and there were calls for the guy to shut up and back off. "No, I'm not an agent, and I was never in the military," she said, pulling herself up straight. "But I have a logical mind. I need it, in my job. Look; there are millions of people living within a few hundred miles of here. It is just not logical that help _would not_ be headed our way right now." She saw some nods of agreement, and an equal number of uncertain or dubious looks.

"It's been over 24 hours," said one man. "24 frickin' hours. No one's coming. We're alone here."

"We have each other," said another. "We're our own best resource. Whatever happens, remember this: we have each other, and we'll be there for each other, until the end…whatever it may be."

Someone else started singing softly, and others joined in:

_Why are there__ so many songs about rainbows  
And what's on the other side?  
Rainbows are visions; they're only illusions,  
And rainbows have nothing to hide.  
So we've been told and some chose to believe it;  
But I know they're wrong, wait and see.  
Someday we'll find it—the rainbow connection:  
The lovers, the dreamers and me…_

The song's outward optimism still struck Abby as being a little next-worldish, and she shivered. She hugged a few agents, and then moved on before they could see her tears.

* * *

Abby wasn't the only one walking through the building with eyes wide open. Ziva, whose assignment was to tail Conklin, boldly started right on the third floor. The door to room 309 opened directly across the hall from the door to MTAC. From the corner of her eye she registered a candle on a desk in MTAC 

and a large shape behind it: Conklin, it must be. She pretended to be intent on 309, though, and opened that door, kicking the doorstop into place.

Ziva had good senses, and, as she stood with her back to the hallway, apparently surveying the room, she was in fact listening. A man as large as Conklin could not sneak up on her unless he could levitate. For a count of 30 she listened, but heard nothing. _Good. Surely he has seen me, but he does not consider me a threat._

_He will._

She forced down the anger that she still felt toward the others, but mostly toward Tony. She could grudgingly understand that Jenny, even Gibbs, might not clue her in. McGee she could also forgive: he was wounded and only marginally in the loop, it appeared. But Tony? What excuse did he have? They were partners. They had to depend on each other, with no margin for error. Being partners trumped everything else; regs, protocols, promises of confidentiality in her book. Yes, the experts would say that was not how to run things, but just about everyone she'd ever worked with agreed: partnership beat out everything else.

_Tony should have told me, and not told anyone else he'd told me. It is as simple as that. I would have played dumb…I will get back at Tony later._

Back to the business at hand. She pretended to search the room, a small conference room, looking under the central table and chairs, along the tray of the whiteboard at the side wall, and in the drawers of the two-drawer filing cabinet. Still no movement from Conklin. _He must be so certain of his infallibility…_

Just when Ziva was starting to wonder what to do next, there came a scream from nearby. A man ran past; seemingly one with his candle??

Ziva was still processing this information and so Conklin beat her to the hallway by a couple of steps. "Owings! Stop!" he called, and ran after the man, whose clothes, Ziva now saw with horror, were on fire. Though she was fast, Conklin was ahead of her, and it was Conklin who tackled the man as he reached the balcony and brought him to the ground. Conklin then rolled the man over and threw his own suit coat on him to finish smothering the flames.

"Get Ducky!" Conklin bellowed, as from the squad room, cheers and applause erupted.

"Owings, didn't they ever tell you to 'stop, drop and roll'?" Conklin chided gently. "Even my grandchildren know that one. They teach that in the school."

Ziva stood at the wall of the balcony. _For a villain, he did a good deed…and must have some burns on his hands. Maybe we were wrong about him…_


	26. December 26, 7:30 am

_**Chapter 26: December 26, 7:30 a.m.**_

Ziva slipped away from the scene as Ducky and Corporal Boyd arrived to treat Owings and Conklin for their burns. It would look too obvious for her to be hanging around, since she hadn't been interacting with Conklin, in the strictest sense, before the incident. The medics should have Conklin tied up for at least 15 minutes (and likely longer, if they attended to the other man—who surely had worse burns—first).

Quietly she stepped down the stairs to the front entrance. If Gibbs had come to check the logs, he was already gone. She scribbled her name and started to make up a reason for her going out, but one of the guards cut her off with a raise of his hand. "It's okay, ma'am. You're on the new list Agent Gibbs just gave us of people approved to leave without management consent."

"Oh. Well. That's good," Ziva said, even finding a smile to go along with her words. But she wondered: _What is Gibbs up to? Was he trying to get Conklin to give something away, by making it easier for him to get out? Probably, but I wish he would tell us if so. _She stopped herself in mid-reach for her cell phone, and felt foolish.

But her real aim had been to do a quick check on the situation at the gates. In the management meeting, no one had said anything about it, and she hadn't thought to ask. _Probably means nothing much has changed: we have not gained ground, but neither has the enemy._

The sky was turning light in the east; sunrise was due in minutes. Not that they'd see the sun just yet; conditions were still overcast, but the air was different today: light and dry, not moist and heavy as it had been in the last few days. The wind was from the southwest, as well. Maybe it would clear off soon. She could only hope. _Sunrise on another bloody day…?_ Shuddering, she dismissed the thought. That type of worry usually didn't come her way.

Ziva decided to go to the O Street gate first. Some of the Marines there knew her and waved to her. She picked out the one with the highest rank there—a sergeant—but the sergeant pointed her to a Navy petty officer, instead. "We're holding our own, Officer David," the PO said, as they stepped around a corner to escape most of the noise. "But not much more than that. Our men are tired, and I've heard that of all of the teams." He turned his face to look at the fighting at the gate. "We'll keep going until we drop, but I wish it didn't have to be that way. I wish…well, I'd better get back there."

At the Isaac Hull gate, the fighters were mostly Navy, with a few Marines. "We're dead tired, Ziva," the Marine in charge echoed the PO's words. "I'm afraid we'll have to call on NCIS again, pretty soon. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry," she said. "We are willing to do our part."

He shook his head, and she was glad he'd spared her the platitude on NCIS-civilians-weren't-expected-to-be-in-a-war. She knew that already. They had no choice.

"I am headed back to NCIS now," she said. "Would you like for me to send a team out here?"

"Anyone you can spare," he said.

It occurred to her, as she signed back in, that she didn't even know who the combat team leaders were now. Gibbs was ineligible, with his wrist injury; she had taken over for him, but she remembered being told that her assignment now to monitor Conklin took precedence over her combat role.

_Management members make decisions,_ she said to herself as she climbed the stairs to the squad room. _They can berate me later if they do not like my decision._ Going over to the twenty or so agents sitting around there, she clapped her hands to get their attention. "We have been asked to supply troops for the Isaac Hull gate," she said, trying to let confidence show in her voice. "I need ten volunteers." To her surprise, she got them, and appointed one whom she vaguely knew as leader. The Marine she'd talked to would still be the actual leader, so she wasn't concerned about NCIS having to make combat decisions.

Now to find out what Conklin was up to…

* * *

Searching for a wheelchair? Look where the doctors are. Tony had quietly found one in a storeroom off Autopsy, and this he now pushed down the third floor corridor. _I can live without lights, refrigeration, and ZNN…but I want the elevators back online!_ he thought. Carrying the chair all the way up the stairs from Autopsy had not been fun. He thanked his lucky stars that he didn't have to worry about sneaking it past MTAC. He didn't want to be asked the questions Conklin was sure to ask.

"Wakey wakey," he sang out as he entered the Director's bathroom. To his perverse delight, Tim had actually been asleep and Tony had woken him. "You are ready for NASCAR. Do you know how to operate one of these?"

Tim made a face. "Actually, yes. I've told you how I crashed my car when I was 16. I used a wheelchair for a few weeks after I got out of the hospital. And it wasn't that hard to learn even then. Can you unfold the chair for me?"

"You want to get in it now? What for?"

"I want to be ready. I'm not sleepy now. Don't ask me 'ready for what?'"

"You'll know it when you see it?"

"Well, I hope so." Since Tony had put the now-unfolded chair close to him, Tim sat up and swung himself into the chair. Then he reached under his pillow and removed Tony's sig, which he tucked into an inside pocket on the left side of the wheelchair. "Tell me," Tim said firmly, "that you have found a replacement sig for yourself somewhere."

"I," said Tony, wearing one of his fake smiles, "am fine. You are fine. Everyone's fine."

"Dang it, Tony; take your dang sig back. I don't want it on my conscience that despite you wearing a bulletproof vest, you were shot down by Conklin or someone because you weren't armed."

Tony reached into a pocket and withdrew a paperclip. "I'm not unarmed. I've been taking lessons from Ziva. I am up to method #9 for killing someone with one of these."

"_Oh, for the love of pete, stop clowning around for once!! You could be killed out there!!"_

"_And you could be killed in here by that maniac!! Tim, I can't work knowing you're defenseless!!"_

They turned silent, glaring at each other. Finally Tony said, "Get up. I'll fight you for it…come on, I said get up!!"

"You bastard!"

"Yeah, well, you know what, McGee? I'm going to take your weakness and exploit it. Yes, I am physically stronger than you at the moment, so I'm declaring you have greater need of the gun than I do. And that's that," Tony snarled.

Tim swore at Tony. Tony swore back, and walked out.

Shaking, Tim reached for the gun and patted it. He so hoped that this friendship wouldn't end on this note, and that this wouldn't be the last time he saw Tony.

* * *

Gibbs looked through the notes he'd made of the entrance/exit log. Conklin had been outside four times since the start of the attacks, for periods ranging from 10 to 43 minutes. All times were after dark. There was nothing else remarkable in the logs for anyone.

He couldn't force the data to make sense; he'd have to mull it over and see if his brain made any connections. Next on his agenda should be task number two: go outside and investigate. But before he did that, he wanted to check on Abby. While her courage in doing an agent's work was commendable, he was worried that she wasn't cut out for it.

After about ten minutes, he found her sitting with the Intel staff in a room with windows, where the daylight was just peeking in. She was listening to them intently, nodding and smiling or frowning at the appropriate points, offering a hug now and then. Gibbs went out, pleased. If the Intel staff had anything pertaining to Zelig or even Conklin, they'd probably sooner tell Abby than they would anyone in management. Provided she didn't spend all her time with just this group, she'd do well.

Jenny counted the shelter-in-place supplies, and sighed. She'd long considered the mandated concept unnecessary, an example of bomb-shelter-like hysteria. Of course there was some sense behind it: you wanted your people to have provisions in case some sort of disaster outside—radiation, civil unrest, blizzard maybe—meant that no one could safely leave the building. NCIS stocked the recommended water and first aid supplies, as well as blankets and pillows (which had already been put into use), and a small number of energy bars.

The water she loaded onto a cart, all seven cases of it. Two she would hide in her office, for very last resort…such as, if the tap water stopped running. One would go to Autopsy for the patients. The others would be generally available. _I wish I had a sense of how much water we've been going through per day._

After a thought, she loaded all of the energy bars, too, on the cart. There were a few dozen of these. All would go to Autopsy. Beyond that, the only food remaining was some packaged dried soups and Cynthia's secret stash of enormous bags of M&Ms (plain and peanut), which she was finally donating to the masses.

_This isn't enough to keep us going. I'll have to go begging to the Marines._

It hit her, then, that maybe this was the enemy's plan all along: a siege. At some point the Navy Yard inhabitants would be so hungry that they would surrender, or too weak to continue the fighting at the gates. _And then the enemy will have us…_


	27. December 26, 7:50 am

_**Chapter 27: December 26, 7:50 a.m.**_

On the rooftop of NCIS, looking north toward the Capitol building, Tony could see reasonably far in the growing light of morning. The air was clear, and the city looked pretty much like it always did. Above the fighting at the Yard gates, he thought he could hear city traffic in the distance…but he might have imagined that. Certainly there were no signs that anything was amiss elsewhere: no clouds of smoke, no fires, no large collection of flashing light from emergency vehicles, no wailing sirens… _We're the only target,_ he thought. _It's not an all-out attack on D.C. It's just us. That indicates a not-very-large terrorist force. We can still win this!_

He lowered the binoculars and stood in thought for a moment. Then he turned when he felt, rather than heard, that he was not alone. "Ziva? Aren't you supposed to be tailing the Conk?"

"I am. He is still in Autopsy, getting his hands bandaged. He will be a while yet; he is not young and I suspect they will check his blood pressure and so on."

"What? What happened??"

Ziva told him, tersely, of the man whose clothes had caught on fire, evidently from a candle, and Conklin's quick actions. "But that is not why I am here now. I want to have it out with you, Tony. And if you think there are any sexual connotations in that, that will be where your first punch comes from."

The smile that had automatically come to Tony's face disappeared just as quickly. "Look, Ziva; I don't blame you for being mad, but things just happened that way. It started when I had suspicions of Conklin and Zelig and went to Gibbs. He ordered me to not talk to anyone about my suspicions; not you, not even Jenny then. Over the next several hours I was brought into Gibbs and Jenny's fold, first just as a pair of eyes, then later as one of the Top Five."

"The Top Five instead of the Top Four? But why you?"

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," he grimaced. "They needed someone to tilt the balance of power away from Conklin and Zelig. Can't you see, Ziva? Every word spoken on this is dangerous. The fewer people that were in on it, the less chance there would be that something would slip back to Conklin and Zelig. I _wanted_ to tell you—but I was under orders not to."

She considered this for a moment, but her pent-up anger demanded release. "I would not want to have you on my team in a real combat situation," she said, her tony icy. "Orders from superiors carry weight, yes, but it is more important to be able to depend on one's teammates. And I see that I could not depend on you, if you keep secrets from me."

"This is different! This isn't real combat!"

"Is it not?"

"No, it's not! We're not working in small squadrons. We're still working directly for _NCIS_, which has a top-to-bottom management structure. That's chain of command. That guides my work here. If I didn't—if everyone didn't—follow that, there would be chaos and no leadership. We have to have leadership. That outweighs any ties teammates have to each other. I'm sorry, but it does."

She shook her head. "And without full trust in each other, a team is weakened. I trusted you, Tony. I trusted you with my life. Now I see that trust was misplaced." After a pause, she added, "I cannot work with you any longer. When this is over, I shall request placement on a different team." She turned quickly and left so he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes, the sign of weakness.

He called her name, twice, adding, _"Stop sulking!"_ but she ignored him and closed the rooftop door behind her.

* * *

Ten special agents reported to the Isaac Hull gate; weapons cleaned and ready for a workout. The Marine in charge greeted them warmly. "A great turnout! Thanks, guys!" He sent an equal number of his fighters back to their home stations to get some rest.

The CRFO agent appointed by Ziva to led the NCIS team, gulped and nodded. He'd had two years in the Navy but had never left the US, much less seen combat, in his tour of duty. "We'll do our part, Sergeant. I'm Leandro Timmons."

"Ed Cinso," said the Marine, shaking the offered hand."Let me brief you on the situation. We appear to have between 15 and 20 enemy troops out there. The number varies. Some disappear for awhile; one tall, skinny guy I've been watching does that, for example. Don't know where they go when they disappear—to O Street, or to some rest station, maybe."

"So they've got a reserve of reinforcements, do you think?"

"Yep. Your man Becker did a lot for us, torching some of those buildings on M. That's sure to have hurt the enemy."

"But Becker blew himself up," Timmons said, with a shudder; glad once again that he hadn't made a career of the Navy. He knew he wasn't cut out for combat in the long run.

"Yeah. Shame, that. But he did what he thought was right. Another thing: they have some of those fancy weapons again. The Gorham Lasers. They must have walked them in from outside the zone of the e-bomb's effects."

"So the zone doesn't extend very far!"

Cinso shrugged. "How far can a man walk? But I'm guessing, based on what we've seen, that the zone only extends a mile or two." Cinso's attention was then directed to one of his people, and Timmons went back to his own group, who were already in position and firing. _Is this where they should be?_ Timmons wondered. _Should we form a solid line at the front?_ He wished he knew. He turned to Cinso for guidance, but the sergeant was still busy.

_Yeah, I think a solid line makes more sense. It's like shooting mechanical ducks at the carnival…if you can keep a steady stream of fire going, you're bound to hit something._ He instructed his nine people to do that, and they did, but with some grumbling over the unexpected formation.

It seemed to surprise the enemy, as well. Now being in different spots, the agents had different vantage points, and so quickly took down three of the enemy. But there was a downside.

One of Cinso's men noticed it, first, and called out to the sergeant. Before Cinso could act, before he could do anything more than yell, however, the attacking fire erupted, ferocious in intensity. With a window-rattling_ BOOM!_ the GLs went off. Three of the agents were knocked over. Timmons, Cinso and a couple other men ran to pull the casualties to cover.

It was a gruesome sight. One agent, a woman, moaned horribly from her wounds. One arm had been nearly blown off. A man was only stunned; his injuries thankfully minor. The third person, a man, was dead.

"Lord. Danny. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Timmons said, over the dead man. Danny Fawkes, a friend of his in the CRFO. Danny, a sweet guy, who'd just minutes ago been leading the others in singing Kermit the frog's song, _The Rainbow Connection_.

Cinso tended to the injured woman while directing two of his men to run for a stretcher. His eyes met Timmons' briefly. He didn't have to say anything. Timmons already felt guilty for having tried a different formation. That tragic decision would stay with him, always.

* * *

In Autopsy, Ducky and Nurse Freestate watched over Jimmy Palmer, grimly. He had slipped into a light coma, which meant they had the added task of having to constantly monitor his diabetes. They did have medication on hand for that—Jimmy wasn't the only diabetic in NCIS—but the disease just increased the severity of his condition. Ducky touched the young man's head lightly, and held back a sigh. Time was running out for his assistant, if they couldn't get him to a hospital, soon.

Corporal Boyd peered in. "Excuse me, Doctor; we have another patient. A casualty from the Hull gate."

"Coming, Jerry. Noreen, will you stay here with Mr. Palmer?" _Jerry. How easily I have slipped into that. If Palmer recovers, I must remember to call him 'Jimmy' more often._

The wounds to the female agent, Marian Quick, were severe. Ducky and Boyd treated her as best as they could, Boyd talking to her in a friendly, encouraging manner all the way through, even though she was now unconscious. She died shortly thereafter.

"She worked here, didn't she, Doctor?" said Boyd. "I'm pretty sure I've seen her around."

"Yes," said Ducky, sadly. "Been with us for a little over a year. She worked the night shift, so I rarely saw her, but she seemed nice. She thought the night was…glamorous, she said. Didn't like working days. She felt safer at night; said she felt less exposed."

"Poor thing." Under his breath, Boyd added, "How many more?"

"That's what I wonder," said Ducky. "Surely we can't take too many more losses before we don't have enough troops to mount a defense."

* * *

Gibbs came back from the O Street gate to find HQ in an uproar. Jenny was in the squad room, trying to soothe sobbing agents.

"What happened?" he asked her, drawing her aside.

"We just lost two at the Hull gate," she said, barely in control herself.

"What in the—who sent our people back out there? None of them should have gone without more rest time; I haven't been able to force the idiots who've just been hanging out in the squad room to sleep. They weren't in shape to go out."

"I know, I know. I'm still trying to piece the story together, but Ziva's name keeps popping up."

"She was supposed to be watching Conklin!" Gibbs hissed. "Though I wouldn't mind sending _him_ to the front lines…"

"He's excused. He has burns on his hands. I'll tell you about _that_ later."

"Who did we lose?" Automatically Gibbs' eyes strayed to the white board across the room, though there wasn't enough light to read it from this distance.

"Danny Fawkes of the CRFO and our own Marian Quick," Jenny choked. "Dammit. I personally hired her. Snatched her up before the CIA could get her. She'd applied to both agencies, but wanted us, more. Both of her parents were in the Navy, and her father is a retired DC cop."

"Night shift. Preferred the dark," Gibbs said, remembering the woman he'd known slightly.

"She had a love of everything that goes along with the night," said Jenny. "The moon. The stars. Bats. Werewolves. Vampires." She smiled ruefully, and then looked sad again. "Oh, Jethro. That's too many losses. Too many." They couldn't embrace, out here in the open, and both felt the hurt even stronger because of that.

"I'll find out why our people were sent out there, unready for combat," Gibbs sighed. "Later, though. Let me go get replacements for our people out there; wake up our folks who've had a good night's sleep."

* * *

Abby sat under a window in a third-floor conference room, drinking a bottle of water as she took a break. Other than bits from the agents in the squad room, she hadn't heard much worth listening to. Now that other agents were beginning to wake up, she'd have a fresh group to listen to.

On Gibbs' advice, she'd put on a lab coat over her sweatshirt, and partially buttoned it up. No one would think twice about her wearing that, since that was how they usually saw her. It had the advantage of better concealing the sig she wore. Probably 95 of the people working here would think nothing of her wearing a gun (provided she didn't try to actually use it!), but it was than unknown 5 who might be working for the other side—those people were ones she didn't want to tip off. And she had no idea who they might be.

With her self-regulated break over, she walked down the stairs, sidestepping the noise in the squad room. Gibbs and Jenny were in the middle of something there, and Abby didn't want to disturb them. Whatever it was, someone (hello, Tony!) would tell her about it later.

Down stairs again, to the first floor. She smiled at the Marine guards. One of them clicked in her mind as having been there a lot in the last week. _Private Hart_, she remembered, for she often looked at nametags, even when she didn't have to know the person's name. "You like being here, Private?" she asked on a whim.

"It's…where I'm assigned, ma'am," he replied, his eyes on the front door,

"Okay; fair enough," she said. _Yeah, probably a pretty boring job._ But something nagged at her, just out of reach of analysis.

* * *

Jenny visited Major Stallings in his office at the Marines compound. "We need help, Vic," she said without preamble. "We're out of food. My people have nothing for breakfast today; just water. We can squeak through a lunch, maybe, but then we're out. What can I buy from you?"

Vic shook his head. "We're not much better off, Jenny. And I wouldn't take your money if I did have anything to offer you; it would be yours for the asking."

She clasped her hands hard in worry. "I don't know what to do. We can't go to the Navy; they came here from Anacostia without much. I've half-considered raiding the fast food places at the food courts on base, but the kind of food they stock has now been without refrigeration for over 24 hours, and requires cooking, besides."

"Hmm. Wait. I created a Food Exploratory committee last night; I'd forgotten that until just now. Let me get the committee head in here; see if she has any results."

Soon Sergeant Ostrowski reported, grinning. "Yes, sir! We have results; fully positive. I didn't report to you when we came back because it was 4 a.m., sir, and you might have been asleep, sir." She looked like she half-believed the legend of Stallings never sleeping.

"So? Spill, Ostrowski," Vic said, smiling.

She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "It's all there, sir. Milk. Cheese. Butter—all still cool from staying in their insulated compartments, but we should use them up soon. Bread. Tins of beans, sardines, etc. All the fruit we could carry, and all the veggies that can be eaten raw. Crackers. Gummy bears. Marshmallows. _Chocolate_! The things that make life worth living."

"This is that little market on 8th, just north of M?" asked Vic, still scanning the paper, grinning.

"Yes, Major. I left a note, on stationery, saying what we took, giving my name, and saying we'd be by to settle up once the conflict was over. I'll use my credit card, if need be."

Vic waved that away. "I'll see to it personally. The DoD can reimburse me later."

Jenny didn't know whether to feel aghast or approving. "You…broke into a market and stole food??"

"Requistioned it, Jenny," Vic grinned. "In a way. Old military tradition. I wouldn't have done it if we weren't desperate. And I wouldn't have risked—how many of you were there, Ostrowski? Seven?—people for a middle-of-the-night raid, when they'd be less likely to be seen, if our survival didn't depend on it. Now, what of this magnificent snatch would you like?"

"Oh, Vic! I can't—this is for your people—"

"Oh, come on, Jenny. You know you need it. This was to last us a couple of days, anyway."

"And there's another market around the corner from there," Ostrowski said, her eyes twinkling. She seemed to have enjoyed her adventure.

"Ostrowski, take the Director to the pantry and let her pick out what she needs. Get a couple of grunts to help her haul it back to NCIS."

"Yes sir. Right this way, Director."

Jenny stood, then paused. "You're a good friend, Vic. I can't begin to thank you for this."

"We work together, Jenny. That's how we've been getting through this from the start. By working together."


	28. December 26, 8:15 am

_**Chapter 28: December 26, 8:15 a.m.**_

Agents who happened to be lingering by the front entrance of NCIS exclaimed in delight when Jenny arrived with three Marines bearing food. "Phil, direct these people to the kitchen, would you? Then grab some people to help you put it away. The dairy stuff is available to anyone on a first-come, first-served basis."

"On it, Director!" the agent said, happily.

"Is Officer David in the building?" Jenny then asked the Marine guards.

"Yes, ma'am. She came back in at 7:51," said one of them.

Jenny thanked them and went in search of the Mossad officer. She wanted answers.

- - - - -

"…so I thought I would grab the first people I saw, and send them out to fight. If you are not fighting, you are available to fight, yes?"

They sat in a conference room at the back of the building, far from the usual commotion in the front. "More or less," Jenny agreed. "I understand your reasoning, Ziva. But there are other things to take into consideration when making these choices. First, not all groups of people are equally prepared to fight. The agents hanging out in the squad room had probably not been getting enough sleep. There were several agents just waking up who were in better shape."

"Oh," said Ziva, still trying to hold herself together as she sat with her boss. The news that two of the ten people she'd sent out had died—even though they'd gone to the Hull gate willingly—had hit her hard.

"Second, why did you pick Leandro Timmons to lead our group? He has no leadership experience that I know of, nor any combat experience."

"I—I should not have picked him, I suppose. I knew almost no one of the group; his name was one I did know. I—I did not think of qualifications. I am so sorry, Director. I obviously went about this the wrong way."

"Ziva, my intent is not to make you feel bad. You had been thrust into a position of power, and you felt you had to make decisions. I will always publicly support my decision-makers. I don't think you made the _right_ decisions, here, but you still had the courage to make them. You were right to try to find troops for the gate. Unfortunately things went wrong." She lifted the downcast woman's chin with a hand. "That's a peril with leadership. Sometimes things go wrong. Your decisions could have turned out to have good consequences, though they didn't. Learn from this. I think you could make a good leader."

"Thank you, Director," Ziva held back sniffles. "When you asked me to come in here, I thought it was about…"

"About?"

"Well, Tony and I had a disagreement…"

"First I've heard of it. You two need to work that out, then. Ziva, I can't promise you that Gibbs won't come down on you for the Hull gate incident. He _is_ your first line supervisor. But bear in mind my words, even if he is a little…harsh. Everyone makes mistakes."

"Thank you, Director." Ziva rose to go, wondering if some mistake had been made in her talk with Tony.

- - - - -

Tony went through the ground level, second floor and third floor three times, walking, looking, and trying to absorb data that wasn't there. Daylight poured in through the windows and reflected light came in through the skylights as the sun, filtered through milky clouds, rose. At one point his path crossed Gibbs'. "Hey, boss."

"DiNozzo. You look chipper."

"That's hunger you see. But word on the street is that we're having real lunch today."

"Yup. Or close to it, anyway. You seen Conklin lately?"

"Nope. He must still be in Autopsy."

"Keep an eye out."

"Will do." They went different ways.

- - - - -

In Jenny's bathroom, Tim sat in the wheelchair and thought about his next move. _Surely with Zelig dead now for a couple of hours, Conklin must think I'm either not a threat, or else I've told everything I've known…_ But then Conklin had seemed far too interested in following Abby, even after Zelig's death. _He still wants me dead._

Tim knew everyone wanted him to stay hidden in the bathroom, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a dead end (no pun intended). That was one of the reasons why he'd wanted the wheelchair—to be able to move if Conklin came after him, when no one else was around.

He sat and dozed a little, then something woke him. A sound? He listened and thought he heard something beyond the bathroom door. Rolling the wheelchair slowly, he made it to the bathroom door and opened it a crack. For a moment he saw nothing, then there was a large shape that could only be Conklin; the largest person at NCIS. Tim held his breath as he saw Conklin cross Jenny's office and go to the little room where Tim and Gibbs had been sleeping. _Gah! Carpet, keep this quiet…_ As Conklin disappeared into the little room, Tim burst out of the bathroom in the wheelchair, rolling silently out of the office and down the corridor. He turned into the conference room closest to the balcony, an interior, windowless room, and closed the door almost all the way. _That was too close,_ he thought, panting. He touched Tony's sig, in the pocket at the side of the wheelchair. _I hope Tony doesn't need this, because it looks like I might after all…_

- - - - -

Tony, too, had a nagging feeling of unease, or foreboding. He'd heard in passing something about the morning's loss at the Hull gate; including the hottie Marian Quick, whom he'd never gotten around to asking out. _Dang…_ He ducked around a corner on seeing Conklin, who'd somehow gotten back up to the third floor unnoticed (he must have taken the back stairs), leaving Jenny's office.

Reaching for his sig and not finding it there, Tony swore. _Well, I still have my fists…and the element of surprise…You're not going to get McGee if I can help it, you big ape…No, that's not the image I want._ Into his mind came the picture of the gigantic, evil Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from the movie _Ghostbusters_. Tony considered it. _Yeah, that's fitting. And he nearly got toasted this morning. Heh._

He waited until Conklin was in MTAC before slipping into Jenny's office. The door to the inner room off her inner office was ajar. _Blast that Conklin! _Heart pounding, Tony threw open the door to Jenny's bathroom. "Probie? _Probie?!"_ Dang it, where could he have gone? _I talked to him only about 20 minutes ago!!_

_What if Conklin had already captured him, even disposed of him?? _These were thoughts Tony didn't want to consider, but he did. _We've got to confront Conklin. Now. But I can't do it alone, unarmed…_

He ran out, in search of Gibbs, Ziva, Jenny…anyone who could use a gun.

- - - - -

Abby walked along the third floor corridor, coming from the rear of the building. Here on the north side it seemed colder, since less sunlight came in. Still, a bit of light was there, she saw, looking out a classroom window, and was that a patch of blue sky? It was gone almost before she could exclaim, but certainly fair-weather clouds were starting to take over from the rain clouds.

She nudged herself to get back to work: listening, finding out the gossip, seeing if anything pointed to any other double agents or traitors…_How could anyone be a traitor? What would drive them to do it?_

Continuing her walk, she had to pass by MTAC. To her surprise, Conklin was back in there, she saw from the corner of her eye. She kept walking, playing deaf when he called out to her. To her annoyance, he came out after her.

"Ms. Sciuto! Didn't you hear me? I asked you if you'd remembered where Agent McGee is! I still want to talk with him!"

_I'm sure you do._ "Uh, gee, no, Mr. Conklin. Sorry. My memory's been awful because I haven't had a _Caf-Pow!_ in days," she said, walking backwards, toward the balcony. "I live on caffeine, you know."

He kept coming forward. "Are you absolutely sure? Think again. Try hard, Ms. Sciuto." His voice was low but menacing.

She was almost at the balcony railing now, and starting to be very afraid…for herself, for Tim, for everyone if this demon man won. _Why can't we get a break? Why can't the good guys win??_

"_There he is!" "Earl!" "Earl!" __**"Our hero!"**_

From the squad room, cheering arose for the older man; tumultuous cheering. Earl Conklin had, for years, been a dedicated administrator who largely hid behind his work and didn't mingle much with the rank-and-file. Old-fashioned, always wearing a suit with no regard to casual days, polite and yet gruff, he was not the type to inspire warmth…yet this morning he did. He had saved the life of an employee, at some risk to his own well-being. Now everyone wanted to acknowledge his heroics, and the agents surged up the stairs to be close and show their appreciation.

Conklin looked a little surprised, but then pleased by the attention. He smiled and waved at the crowd, and although he seemed to have business elsewhere, he was convinced by their pleas to stop and say a few words.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about. I just saw someone, a valued member of our working community, who needed help, and so I offered it…"

Tim had heard the conversation and the commotion, and took the opportunity of the chaotic rush to come out. _"Abby!!"_ he hissed, rolling in her direction. "Go! Now! If he catches you, he'll take you hostage!"

But some of his fellow agents saw him and interfered. "Hey, Timmy! Where've you been hiding out, man?" one called cheerfully. Another added, "Love your new wheels, but I still like your Porsche better!"

"McGee?" Conklin turned his way. "I'd like to speak with you alone, in MTAC. Come along now; it'll take no more than 10-15 minutes."

"_Talk later!"_ someone called. "Celebration first! I'm pretty sure I saw apples in the food that just came in…that's better than nothing!"

"_Apples!!"_ people murmured in delight. They hadn't had any fruit in at least three days. Apples sounded wonderful.

"Oh, now, I really don't think—" Conklin said, but whatever he thought was drowned out by the agents' protests.

He tried again. "Can't you hold it off for just a little while, maybe half an hour?" Politely, he made his way over to Tim, and put his hands on the wheelchair's handles. Leaning over Tim's shoulders, he whispered to him, "I expect you're armed. Don't try anything; they love me now, and will mow you down."

_Dang it,_ Tim thought, and tried to think of a way out. Right now, though, Conklin had him.

Tony fought through the crowds, who were still coming up the stairs; nearly 60 people now. "Apples are a great idea!" he cried out. "Let's all meet in the kitchen area! Come on, Earl; you can hand them out. We have cheese, too!"

"I will, in a few minutes," Conklin called back in gruff cheerfulness, which was about as cheerful as he ever got. "I'll meet you all down there!"

Several agents started back down the stairs, eager to be among the first to get apples. This made it hard for Ziva to get _up_ the stairs—people just wouldn't _move aside!_

"Come on, McGee," Conklin tried again, and turned the wheelchair to face the corridor.

"_Stop!"_ Tony ordered, grabbing one side of the chair.

Conklin gave him a malice-tinged glare. "Why, DiNozzo. That almost sounds like you want to shoot the hero of the morning."

"No, I want to shoot the piece of crap who sold us out to the enemy," Tony snarled.

"Maybe you need to be a faster draw," Conklin said, his Glock in his hand in blindingly fast speed. He had Tony up against the wall, only two away.

"_Drop it!"_ said someone they'd never before heard say that. Abby; only ten feet away; holding her sig in a perfect Modern Isosceles stance. "I have always, _always_ wanted to say that!" She smiled, a chilling smile.

Conklin's attention diverted, Tim called out, "Tony!" and tossed the gun back to its owner.

"Hey! What's going on?" some of the remaining agents demanded.

"His game is up," said Ziva, her gun leveled as well. "He is not the hero he seems to be. Anyone who menaces my partner has to answer to me."

"And me," said Gibbs, now on the scene, gun in hand.

"And I am still your boss," said Jenny, her gun out as well. "Although your employment is fast coming to an end."

Tony moved around Conklin and handcuffed him. "Now I don't know which I like better," he said. "The idea of getting fresh food for lunch, or getting a late Christmas present. A terrorist for Christmas. Gee, and I didn't even ask Santa for one." He thought. "I think I like the fresh food better."

"You're the one who signaled the enemy, aren't you?" Gibbs said calmly to Conklin's face. "You sold them secrets. You got them inside the Yard. You arranged for the attacks at the holidays, designed to break the country's morale with the kick-in-the-face timing."

"I didn't let them in," said Conklin. "That was Zelig. He got them in."

"But you were the Mr. Big, so to speak. Why did you do it, Earl? Why?" asked Jenny. "You had twenty-nine years with the agency. You could be retired now!"

Conklin's eyes were full of wrath. "You don't know what it's like to get old in this country," he said. "Other countries have comprehensive health care plans. Ours are run by profit-based insurance 

companies. Between my wife and me, we spend close to 1500 per month on medications alone…and the costs go up each year! We needed the money they gave me to get by..."

Tim put his fingers to his chin, the fingers on one hand moving back and forth. "This is the world's tiniest violin, playing just for you," he said sourly. Gibbs gave him a look, and Jenny smirked.

"I demand a lawyer!" Conklin stormed.

"Sorry. They don't get lawyers, traitors sent to Gitmo," said Gibbs. "But on the plus side, you do get free health care. Take him to holding," he ordered two trusted agents. Gaping agents parted the way as the three started down the stairs.

There was a sudden sound, between a creak and a moan. Some people stopped. "Did you hear that?" "What was it?" "Are they shelling us?" It came again, a loud, deep-voiced creaking, followed by a series of little ticks. People quieted, listening.

One agent broke out in a laugh. "It's the building's furnace!" he cried. "The furnace is coming back on!!"

Joyfully people cried out, though a few with more working wits said, "But that means—"

"—we should be getting power again!!" said Abby. Just then, lights started flickering on, all over the building. People bounced in delight. Things were definitely turning in their favor, if the power company was able to make whatever repairs to overcome the effects of the e-bomb.

"I wonder…" said Tim, and pulled out his cell phone. He crowed on seeing five bars again. As others pulled out their own cell phones in delighted disbelief, desk phones started ringing. Jenny ran for her office, recognizing its distinctive ring. _"Kel!"_ she cried, on hearing the SECNAV's voice. "Yes, we're still here, Kel. Most of us. But let me call you back in a few. I have some things to attend to."

"Normalcy's coming back," Tony said, smiling, still standing on the balcony. "Told you we'd get through this."

"We have not won yet," Ziva said. "A small matter of enemies still at the gates, yes?"

"Yeah, but we have _phones_, Ziva! You understand what that means, Probie, don't you?"

Tim nodded. "We can order in pizza!"

Ziva doubled over in laughter. "You two! I do not always understand why you do what you do, but I do not think I would want to work with anyone else."

"You sure about that?" Tony asked, smiling dubiously.

"I am sure. I will be glad when we get back to things are as they were, and none of us is management any longer."

"You got that right," said Tony, and Tim nodded vigorously.

Then another sound came. Car horns? Trucks? Shouts? Gibbs lead the way to a staircase, and they all poured onto the rooftop, in the now-bright sunshine; where the air was quickly warming.

And to their utter delight, they saw jeep and trucks, even some tanks, coming down M Street, horns blaring. It was the Yard forces at the Hull gate doing the cheering. The vehicles were easily identifiable. The Army National Guard was here at last.

On the NCIS rooftop, people screamed in happiness; danced, hugged each other, even kissed. The nightmare was over. Their side had won.

"Oh, it's so wonderful; it's so wonderful!" Abby cried, hugging and kissing everyone in sight. _"We made it!!"_

Then Jenny stopped and sobered, thinking of the whiteboard in the squad room. "Not all of us did," she said, the tears starting.

They all quieted then, and hugged each other in larger groups, crying. Sixteen of their people were dead. Their side had won, but at such a great, great cost to get to this point.


	29. Epilogue

_**Chapter 29: Epilogue**_

_December 28, 1 p.m.:_

Tony was on his knees, and regretting having worn his best suit today. Except that this was the day, of any day, to wear it. "Yeah, McGee," he said into the phone. "How can I tell which cable goes where?"

"DiNozzo—David—let's go." Gibbs' tone was as quiet and somber as the dark suit he wore.

"It's time? Okay; coming, boss." Tony and Ziva looked up from the replacement computers they were installing in the squad room; looked, by habit at the wall clocks, then at their watches. They still didn't have replacements for the wall clocks yet; these were frozen at the time the e-bomb had gone off. Most of the electrical equipment at NCIS, nearly everything that had been plugged in, was a loss, and it would be weeks before all equipment would be replaced and up and running. Tony put on his suit coat. They'd hoped that by staying busy they'd feel less depressed, but it wasn't working out entirely that way.

Now two days after the Army National Guard arrived on M Street, the people of NCIS were set to join the Navy Yard's other residents and the members of the Anacostia Naval Station for a service under large, striped tents erected over the largest parking lot; the only area in the Yard big enough to hold the expected crowd. The weather was a bit chilly, but dry. That was more than could be said for most people's eyes.

The President had declared this day a 'national day of mourning' after the horrendous event which had quickly been dubbed _Our Second 9/11_. Federal and most other governmental employees, and some private sector employees, were given the day off. Perhaps many of those employees far removed from Washington looked upon the day as nothing more than an extension of the New Year's holiday. For those close to the District, the attack was an unwitnessed event that could have taken place in their own back yard.

For the Navy Yard employees, it was a day acknowledging their personal losses; something they greatly needed.

The men and women of NCIS wore dark, solemn colors which matched the sobriety of the military uniforms. Having the event outside meant that it would stay fairly short, it was hoped.

Big mucky-muck visitors to the remembrance event were many: congressmen, other political leaders, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, some foreign dignitaries—it was rumored that even the President might show up. The apologies that congressmen made for diverting the National Guard for a day to guard parts of Washington that were not in danger fell hollowly. Everyone in the audience knew that lives could have been saved if the Guard had been allowed to come when they were expected. In a way it was unnerving and frustrating for the Navy Yard people: these visitors hadn't lived through it. They didn't _know_. To get closure, the Yard people needed something just for themselves, without the outsiders who felt they _had to_ be there and make a statement, or at least be shown waving the flag, so to speak. To many of the Yard employees, those people were intruders, and they didn't want this remembrance service to be something to be endured.

Short speech after short speech praised the bravery and heroics of the men and women of the historic Yard, the nation's oldest shipbuilding facility. Just as the news media had already carried the names and the pictures of the dead, over and over in the newscasts, so the speeches here remembered them, and the numbers were staggering: eleven dead from the Marines, four from the Navy, and sixteen from NCIS.

It was bad enough that some of their number were unable to attend, being in the hospital. Jimmy's condition had been upgraded to fair; his recovery would be slow, but he would recover. Tim gnashed his teeth and lamented his confinement after minor surgery that would keep him in there for another few days. They were the only NCISers still in the hospital; another three were convalescing at home. Grief counselors had already started attending to all of the NCIS employees; they would be there for weeks.

As the service ended, Jenny looked at Gibbs, next to her, and smiled slightly as he touched her hand in reassurance. She already knew that the months ahead would be hell, but the recovery began here, today.

- - - - -

Within a day, the funerals began. Jenny and a string of volunteers attended whatever funerals they could; she saw to it that each one had at least one NCISer in attendance. Not one family faulted NCIS for allowing their loved one to be put in danger. They all knew well the dedication the agents had for their job.

- - - - -

_January 4, 10 a.m._

A week after the Navy Yard service, Jenny, Gibbs' team (including Tim, reluctantly permitted by his doctor to travel), and other NCISers from HQ attended the memorial service for the fallen CRFO agents in Glynco, Georgia. Nine of NCIS' dead had been with the CRFO. This service was more like what the Yard employees wanted: closed to outsiders, although attendees included several staff and students from nearby FLETC, and of course, the families.

Ziva's throat caught at the sight of agent Rhonda Schofield's older daughter, probably no more than ten or eleven, gravely accepting a folded flag from the head of the CRFO. Her little sister—the one whose birthday party her mother had cried over missing—clung to her Naval officer father's leg. All of the dead honored here had something similar; something powerful in their lives, even if it was just being remembered for being a decent person who loved dogs and always bought whatever candy the neighborhood kids were selling. Ordinary people; that was the best thing about them.

- - - - -

Over the next several months, NCIS got only a fraction of its normal work done, due to the enormous work put in for the recovery. Equipment replacement costs at HQ were mind-numbing, but a sympathetic Congress gave Jenny near _carte blanche_ to bring things back to normal.

Jenny found a new Intel head in one Janet Sorenson; freshly retired from the Navy. Tim had been arm-twisted into being Acting Head of Intel for two and a half weeks, and was very glad to have Sorenson take over. She was down-to-earth and friendly. The search to replace Conklin in MTAC took longer, but finally came up with a 25-year agent named Barnard Flynn. Flynn was calm and thoughtful, and would probably work out.

Conklin himself had been sent, as Gibbs predicted, to Gitmo quickly. Along with him went Private Hart, the Marine guard who'd raised Abby's suspicions by being on door duty so much. Having heard of Conklin's capture, Hart decided to confess that he'd been paid off to let some people in and out without signing the log; hoping a confession would make things go easier on him.

Jenny still needed agents to fill in the gaps left by the tragedy. She assessed the numbers over and over. Faith (not considered one of the sixteen, as Zelig was not, either) would not be replaced at Intel, at least not for the time being. Two surviving agents had filed for retirement; talked into it by their families. Jenny put out a call to all the other agents around the world for volunteers for a six-month detail to HQ or the CRFO. Figuring that they could get by with four volunteers at HQ and five at the CRFO, she knew she'd settle for three and four, respectively. If she needed to, she'd beg recent early-retirees to come back for a few months. Any of it was asking a lot, though, for people to uproot their lives for up to half a year. She expected to get eight to ten volunteers, altogether.

She got fifty-six.

The FBI, the CIA, and other parts of Homeland Security joined in a thorough inspection of NCIS' methods and people, at Congress' request. Jenny bore the brunt of the charges and the accusations, but kept her head held high, winning her peoples' hearts. In the end, little fault was found at the agency—it was the sort of thing that could have happened anywhere, Congress acknowledged. NCIS just happened to be where the terrorists hit. In fact, Congress' final report, issued the next year, praised NCIS for its courageous actions. "No other group of civilian federal employees could have done more in a war-like setting," said one part of the report.

Eventually the truth came out about Zelig and Faith. Faith had been born in Turkey under a different name, and come to the US at an early age with her family. She wasn't the only one in her family to have gone the double agent route; her family kept the CIA busy for over three years. The real Charles Zelig had died as an infant; a clever young man who had learned English very well had been recruited from Afghanistan and given a well-built-up identity. His five years of work with NCIS had been a slow but necessary build-up in responsibility. "Zelig" had indeed recruited Faith. The investigators could only guess that Faith had expected to be paid well, and then flee the country.

The best news came in March, when a naval inspection team finished going over the _Barry_ and declared that it could be repaired for not too great a sum. Loving symbolism, Congress readily appropriated the necessary money. It would mean so much more to have the _Barry_ repaired than have it replaced with another ship.

- - - - -

_June 24, 5 p.m.:_

"Hey, Palmer; you coming or not?" Tim called from the edge of the park, across Sicard Street from the NCIS building. Jimmy was loosely considered a hero by many, and a space would be saved for him up front.

"Yes, get a move on, Jimmy!" Abby said, grinning.

"Go on, Jimmy; don't keep your friends waiting," Ducky said to him as they stood just outside the NCIS door. Jimmy smiled in some disbelief and ran over to join Tim, Abby and the rest.

Six months from the day of the first attack, at approximately the time the attack started, a different service was held in the Navy Yard on a beautiful early summer day. This was for only the Navy Yard people. An uncluttered granite marker, with the names of the thirty-one dead, would be unveiled in Willard Park.

The speeches today, the memories spoken, were all from the heart. No one could hear the stories and not be affected. The agents on the six-month details, including Stan Burley and Richard Owens, could only listen in wonder. There was so much that they'd heard in their time in Washington, but each new story brought out new details. The two new agents just out of FLETC were appropriately green but eager, and humbled by the ceremony. A class had just started at FLETC, and by the end of the year NCIS would be fully staffed again.

The ceremony ended with a scent of flowers in the wind. The tears were still there, but the grief was getting bearable.

"It's almost 6," said Tony. "I'm willing to put in a little more time on the Dickenson case tonight; what about it?"

"Fine with me," said Tim.

"And with me," said Ziva. After something like this service, they were reluctant to part. Such an experience as they'd gone through, in those three days back in December, had brought them closer. Arm in arm they went back inside their building.

- - - - -

THE END


End file.
